Allegiance
by Mysteerya
Summary: Murtagh struggles to forge his way through a conflicted conscience and Galbatorix's will. Allegiance follows Murtagh from the end of Eldest through Brisingr.
1. Homecoming

_WHAT were you thinking?_

_I wasn't ready._

Thorn veered sharply to the left, preparing to descend upon the rear of the Empire's encampment. Murtagh felt his stomach fly up to his throat. The bone colored canvas tents below billowed in the sultry breeze.

_Thorn, we're going back to Uru'baen. Galbatorix wants us to report directly in person. You know that._

Thorn snorted angrily as he righted himself and glided through the air. _You know what will befall us upon our empty-handed return._

_Not quite empty-handed. _Murtagh reached for the pommel of Zar'roc that was now belted about his waist. _My father's sword. It ought to buy us some mercy_.

Murtagh drew a long sigh, his steamy breath filling his helm. Irritated, he slipped it off and hung it upon the horn of his saddle. The wind cooled his sweaty face and combed through his sweat-drenched hair.

Adrenaline still hurtled through him, numbing his senses. No more than thirty minutes had passed since his encounter with Eragon. Intermittent tremors riddled him and he constantly adjusted his grip on Thorn and his saddle. An ominous sense of detachment pervaded him. The sensation sent pin picks of unease over him. He shuddered at the thought of Galbatorix forever denying him the ability to forge his own destiny.

_It's not too, late_, Thorn pressed_. We can still turn around and catch them unawares. _Thorn slowed his pace and they drifted along on a balmy air current.

Murtagh considered the proposition. It was the wise thing to do; it would safeguard him against the king's fury. But his courage would not be broken so easily. Eragon was, after all, a brother. And the bond they had forged in the time between Brom's death and his capture at Tronjheim triumphed over his fear of Galbatorix's displeasure. Indeed, they were much the same arguments Eragon had used to dissuade him from fulfilling Galbatorix's orders. But none had been as convincing as when Eragon had said: 'If you do this, Murtagh, you'll be lost forever.' The words chilled him to his core.

_No, Thorn._

Thorn huffed and the smoke from his nostrils thickened. Seething with anger that burned through Murtagh's mind, Thorn pumped his wings hard, giving Murtagh a jolt as they surged towards the northeast.

_He was my friend. He is my brother…. _Murtagh struggled to explain the complexity of the situation.

_What friend counsels suicide? He tried to kill you! Eragon is our foe, _Thorn growled. The smoke from his nostrils thickened.

Murtagh bristled at Thorn's judgment. _I don't expect you to understand, Thorn, seeing as you've never known the meaning of friendship._

Thorn snarled with a menacing growl. Murtagh felt a surge of hurt ripple through Thorn's being.

_I'm sorry; that was cruel. I beg your patience. Meeting Eragon today has troubled me more than I expected….that I haven't come to terms with our lot. _

Thorn's anger still burned against him, but the intensity diminished somewhat. _I will try, _was all the young dragon said. Then, _You dwell too much on the past. There's freedom living in the present._

To this, Murtagh was unable to reply and settled for ruminating upon Thorn's counsel. They sailed through the sky towards the royal city of Uru'baen, each conjuring images of what dark reception would await them.

At dusk the next evening Thorn and Murtagh glimpsed the palace of Uru'Baen, bathed in a ruddy glow from the setting summer sun. Murtagh's stomach cramped so tightly he couldn't imagine it could get any tighter. His heart pounded as it had when he'd come across Eragon on the Burning Plains. As frequently as Murtagh had experienced apprehension, he had never grown accustomed to its nauseating weight.

_We don't have to do this,_ Thorn entreated. Murtagh sensed the overwhelming dread in his steed.

_We must. Running from him is useless. _Murtagh recalled his capture at Tronjheim; it seemed a lifetime ago. _H__e always catches you in the end._

_He's waiting for us_, Thorn said tensely as a shudder ran the length of his body. _I see him waiting outside the roost_.

They were approaching the royal city, its ornate pillars and steeples stretching towards the dusky sky. Towering above all the city and its lofty buildings was the palace, its dragon roost crowning the impregnable fortress that was Galbatorix's awesome lair.

Murtagh rallied his courage and prepared himself for a less than warm welcome. He took several deep breaths to fortify his stony composure.

_Courage, my friend_, Murtagh soothed. _Courage. We are not cowards. _Murtagh bestowed several reassuring strokes upon Thorn's neck.

A moment later, Thorn exclaimed, _He's leaving! Suppose he rides out to meet us..._

As the distance closed between the palace and the returning sojourners, relief replaced their anxiety as it became clear that Galbatorix had abandoned the landing site and was nowhere to be seen in the air upon his ghoulish Shruikan.

A male attendant, dressed in a handsome tunic with the Empire's emblem stitched upon its front, rushed out from the roost's dimly-lit expansive archway. He kept his eyes lowered while addressing his superiors. "My lord Murtagh, King Galbatorix knows of your return. He says you are to rest this evening. He will summon you when he sees fit."

Murtagh noted the wavering in the servant's voice, evidence that Galbatorix was in a dark mood.

Murtagh and Thorn were conflicted over whether they should be alarmed or relieved with this news. They bade each other a brief, grim farewell and went their separate ways.

While passing through the cavernous roost, Murtagh avoided looking in the direction of Shruikan's abode; but Murtagh sensed the malevolent gaze of the King's monstrous dragon on him, following him through the large doors that led into the palace.

* * *

><p>"Fie! FIE!" These milder words of displeasure were soon followed by harsher, darker oaths. Galbatorix was an exquisite orator of oaths, and was perhaps greater at delivering these tirades than his polished speeches meant to invigorate the kingdom. He now resembled a great, roaring thunderstorm.<p>

Two women heard this oath storm approaching down the corridor outside their room.

"Quick! No sense seeing what can already be heard." A plain woman, of a round face and just as round eyes and form, dropped her needlework instantly and ushered her companion out of a decadent sitting room into a narrow but elegant hallway.

The round woman's companion was a young woman who appeared very much the opposite of the round woman. Her long, thick, dark hair was bound in a jeweled net. The round woman sturdily gripped her slender hand and pushed her forward with a hand upon her back, steering her through the short hall and into an unlit room. The last vestiges of twilight cast the room in menacing gray shadows.

The roundly woman retraced her steps to shut the doors they had trespassed. Just as she shut the door to the room they had stowed themselves in, a clanging boom of massive doors thrown open reached their ears. They clung to each other in their fright.

"Damn you Morzan! Damn the whore you took to your bed!"

There are no words to convey the volume of his voice and its fury.

The women heard a sharp crack followed by a rumbling thud as some piece of furniture was shattered against a stone wall of the neighboring room.

"Damn you and your cussed bastard!" A primal yell of indescribable rage followed.

"Fate help you Murtagh, you slimy boneless rat, that I don't slaughter you where you stand!"

There was more crashing of furniture and then there was a sudden popping explosion as heavy wood splintered. The two women could hear shards of glass and wood pelt the wall.

There were several tense moments of pure silence. The women held their breaths, fearful that somehow it would betray them to the monster in the next room.

After several quiet minutes passed, the round woman squeezed her charge's hand. "I think it best you sleep in my quarters this night."

The young woman felt the trembling of her servant and silently complied. Together, they softly treaded the room to a door that let them out onto a giant corridor. From there, the round woman escorted the young woman through a door at the end of that corridor, and down a flight of stairs in a narrow dark stair well, through another door, trekked a modest hall, their journey ending in a humble set of rooms.

The rooms were dark and the round woman, knowing her rooms well, found her way to candle and flint.

"Marla, what if he-"

"He won't be wanting company tonight."

"Can we be certain of that?"

There was tiny snap as a flame burst forth in the dark. It fluttered and then it shone steadily, illuminating Marla and the window ledge upon which it sat.

"No, suppose not. But he'll thank me in the morning." She paused and lit several more candles with the first one. "I believe the worst of it is over."

Marla, the servant, turned down her bed and gestured for her charge to take it.

"I'll sleep on the floor," said Marla.

The young woman resigned herself to the bed and lay down. Marla began to draw the covers over her.

"No, I don't want them," said the young woman, a tint of exasperation coloring her voice. She brushed the back of her wrist across her brow, removing the thin film of sweat that had collected there. A silver bracelet slid up her arm slightly as she did so.

"Very well, Nefalia." Marla drew the covers back. "Sure is a bit stuffy in here. Whew!"

Nefalia turned to face the stone wall. She reached out a hand, her long fingers tracing over the cool, smooth stone. She was wide awake and knew she would never entice sleep to her.

"I hope he didn't ruin my sewing," Marla muttered as much to herself as to Nefalia. "Some of my best work, it is."

_No __more __of __this_, Nefalia thought, ignoring her servant. She watched Marla's shadow flutter on the wall. _I __refuse __to __accept __this __as __my __fate. __I __refuse __to __lose __everything._

* * *

><p>Late in the evening, after dining on food and drink superior to army rations; and several awkward, irritating encounters with wide-eyed hopeful young females, Murtagh resigned himself to the solitude of his chambers. It wasn't that he didn't like girls. He smiled. Oh yes, he had enjoyed the company of several ladies during his short-lived freedom outside the King's control; and he had had a few flings with girls in Uru'baen in the time before he realized Galbatorix had maniacal tendencies. Mindful of his past romantic exploits, he avoided the public thoroughfares in the palace. Disconsolate females were the last thing he wanted to contend with tonight.<p>

He removed the key to his room from a secret pocket within his shirt. He supposed he could have used magic to disengage the lock but the old habit refused to be broken.

The antechamber was lit by a single brilliant overhead lantern. He was pleased that the servants had prepared his quarters for his return. His rooms, five in all, were lit by several candelabras and oil lamps. Their flames did not waver in the languid summer air.

The antechamber opened onto his sitting room where he received visitors, conducted personal meetings and other such social engagements. Large windows, now opened wide to receive the night's feeble breeze, were directly opposite the entryway. Light-weight curtains the color of ashes, gathered at each end of the enormous windows, framed the moonless night beyond.

Off to the left was his study, fully furnished with all the ornate trappings fit for both a prince and a prestigious Dragon Rider. It was a room he had inhabited for hours on end with tutors aiding him in the pronunciation of the Ancient Language and mastering the basics of magic. When he had mastered the foundation, he was then personally tutored by Galbatorix himself in a room more conducive to their lessons. Each wall was lined with shelves containing precious books and scrolls concerning the subject of magic. Galbatorix had provided him all the literature thereby ensuring that Murtagh would not encounter ideas contrary to the royal curriculum. Upon the completion of his training, Murtagh rarely entered the room; it possessed a suffocating atmosphere.

On the other side of the sitting room was his bedchamber and off of that was the bathroom. They were handsome quarters; Galbatorix had spared no expense. The best linens draped a luxurious mattress which dressed a canopy bed frame wrought from exotic woods. The bed posts were carved by master craftsmen, depicting vines and thorns woven in intricate patterns. After spending countless nights on nothing more than a cot or the hard, damp ground itself, Murtagh looked forward to bedtime.

He entered his sitting room, unbelted Zar'roc, and collapsed onto a plush armchair that faced a double-sided fireplace; the other side opened onto his bedroom. His fingers kneaded the squashy padding of the armrests as he stared into the dark, ashy depths of the hearth. His thoughts ran along familiar paths in an unremitting labyrinth, searching for an escape from his enslavement. None came. And there was no evading punishment for releasing Eragon and Saphira.

He pressed his head against the plush backrest of the chair and released a deep sigh. Out of the corner of his eye in the shadows, he saw an unfamiliar mass near the door. He wasn't alone. Turning with a start in the direction of the doorway, Murtagh bolted to his feet and whipped out the dagger stored inside his boot. When his eyes took in the tall, black-clad, and lithe female figure leaning against the doorframe of his sitting room, he lowered the blade. But only slightly. And for a split second he thought it was Arya.

"If you had been my target, death would have claimed you and deposited your pathetic little soul in the void long ago," said the uninvited guest. "And you never would have known."

"You?" It was both a pronouncement and a query laden with disgust.

"Oh, come now, Murry. That's your greeting, is it?"

Murtagh scowled.

Laughter erupted from the intruder, but Murtagh did not consider it a laugh. It crackled with cynicism. It was the laughter of one scarred from living in pursuit of self- preservation. At any cost.

"You never did like your pet-name," the woman said with a wry smile.

"Luana," Murtagh growled. Hatred swelled within his chest.

Luana cocked her head to one side, considering him. Her lips were pursed together as if his voice were a sour flavor on the tongue. "I didn't expect much of a greeting from you. We hadn't parted on the best of terms. Did we?" Her eyes glistened with dangerous mischief.

"Get out," Murtagh snarled. This Luana was one such disconsolate female and more.

"Thanks, love." Luana swaggered over to an armchair and settled her sleek figure upon it. "Please, Murtagh, sit. The lady is seated. She nodded to the chair opposite her. She spread her arms over the armrests and appeared by all accounts entirely at ease. "We mustn't forget our manners."

He clenched his dagger tightly. He wanted to pin her against the chair. With his dagger. He envisioned the hilt protruding from the space just above her collarbone. Perhaps he would even cut out her heart. _If she has one_, he thought bitterly.

Luana's eyes went to his weapon. "Surely you can do away with that. I know I mistreated you, but surely not to the point to warrant a blade." She paused and winked at him. "Pun intended."

Murtagh did not ease his stance, but his focus wavered. She had soft bronze colored skin with a glow to warm a cold heart if only for a moment. Her eyes often appeared narrow so that it either lent her the expression of sheer mischief or primal ferocity. Often times her gaze was unreadable but nevertheless penetrating and always possessed the power to enchant. Her hair, pulled back now in a series of tight and intricate weaving against her scalp, had the luster of polished stone. The color was that of ebony but the light of morning or evening would lend it a reddish hue. Indeed, she was an exotic beauty in Murtagh's mind. And if Murtagh were not the skeptic that he was, he would have thought her a goddess.

"What you did far surpasses mistreatment."

"Come around now, Murry. We're civil human beings, aren't we?" She crossed one long leg over the other. Her black leather knee high boots creaked slightly with the motion.

All she had to do was speak, and whatever physical affection he felt for her was diminished. He had once thought her voice seductive and nearly irresistible; it was on a slightly lower register than most women but was smooth and clear as a songbird. But now he found it loathsome and slippery.

It was a terrible pity, he thought, that so lovely a woman as she should have the personality of a cunning predator. A cobra with legs, he had once told Thorn.

"I'm not so sure."

A grin filled her face. "You got me there. I've trespassed. How terribly uncivil of me. And you…" She paused and smiled as if savoring some great wine. "You slew the king of the dwarves. And by all accounts, that was not so civil. You really are Galbatorix's long-reaching right arm…or, if you rather, his puppet."

Within seconds, the flat of Murtagh's blade was pressed beneath her chin and its keen edge was poised to slice her soft skin. His other hand gripped the back of her collar and yanked it down so she had to peer up at him. He felt her posture tense, and then relax. He had only frightened her for a fraction of a second. He marveled at her courage.

She smirked. "Hit a nerve, did I?" Her eyes passed over him, assessing his face. Murtagh kept the blade steady. When she spoke, the blade pricked her neck. "My, how you have changed. Groomed and fit for kingly service."

"You never could stop talking about yourself" he growled.

She smiled, but her eyes narrowed in anger. "Interesting. I paid you a compliment, and you rejected it with…was that a note of shame in your voice?"

Murtagh made no reply. Her words stunned him but not so much as a sharp prick of pressure upon his chest. The point of a very small blade was on the verge of slipping into his ribs. Her execution was impeccable. He cursed; his thirst for vengeance had compromised his defenses.

Neither lessened the intensity behind their weapons.

"It is shame, isn't it?" She continued as though they were having a pleasant conversation over tea and crumpets. "You're ashamed of being a Rider, of serving King Galbatorix-"

"Put it away!" he hissed.

Her eyes narrowed, glaring at him with vivid blue eyes. So blue that it reminded Murtagh of a mountain lake, deep and cold. The color had always surprised him.

"You take my life, and I'll take you with me," she muttered. Her blade pierced his clothing, the point resting on his skin. "The blade is poisoned," she added softly with a smirk.

An excruciating moment passed, neither daring to move, and neither willing to surrender.

"I've dreamed of this moment," said Murtagh.

"Liar. I'm still alive."

Murtagh ignored her remark. "You told me you never go back."

"True."

"So talk."

"You're too close for comfort." She smiled victoriously.

Murtagh hesitated then slowly removed the blade from her throat. She watched him as if she were enjoying some comic routine performed by a jester. As her blade retreated, he gave her a little shove on the neck while releasing his grip on her collar.

"Maybe I won't talk afterall," she stated flatly while rubbing the back of her neck, but the playful edge had not yet slipped away. She was still toying with him and her miniature dagger remained prominently in hand.

Murtagh sat in the opposite armchair, also keeping his dagger at the ready. He was so tense that the muscles in his shoulders and back ached. "What do you want, Luana?"

"Tea?"

"No more games."

"Oh," she pouted. "Murtagh is too old, too important for games. Or maybe it's just that he has forgotten how to play?"

Murtagh glared fiercely at her. He was beyond irritated. "Stop wasting my time, you whorring traitor."

There was a brief moment of silence as she stared at him with blue slits. "All right," she said, throwing up her hands in surrender. "All I wanted was to say hello and how good it is to see you again, returned safely home from the battlefront. And on the verge of victory."

"The truth, Loony. Or have you buried yourself so deep in lies that you can't find your way."

She cocked her head at him. "_Truth_, Murtagh, is in the eye of the beholder."

He saw her growing impatience in the way her jaw muscles clenched and un-clenched. Desiring to exacerbate her further, he did not speak or even offer the faintest of smiles.

"Still not satisfied," she observed. "Truth will out, they say." She sighed. "I wanted to rekindle what we had—"

"Our past is dead and buried."

"Ever hear of necromancy?"

A shadow passed over his countenance. His gaze shifted away from her momentarily.

"But is it really dead and buried?" She let the question hang in the air a moment before her gloating grin disappeared. "In all sincerity, Murtagh, I only wanted to say hello." The playful edge in her voice was gone.

Murtagh shook his head. "Not you. You never want to 'just say hello.'"

"I wanted to see what Galbatorix had done with you-"

"I knew you had a selfish reason," Murtagh interjected.

"-since the Twins carted you back to our lovely city. May they rest in peace."

Murtagh furrowed his brow in a query. "How do you know what happened to them?"

"It's called a network, love."

Murtagh ignored her response, impatient. "You were saying?"

She smirked. "It seems to me, Murtagh, you don't want to hear what I'm saying. I know when I'm not wanted." She rose and sauntered to the door.

"You're here because I have something you want," called Murtagh as he rose to his feet, watching her like a vendor eyeing a potential thief.

"Obvious, but vague."

"You want me," he sneered.

"That's twice you've insulted my honor. Don't be so quick to assume you are the precious, chosen one. Find me when you've figured it out." Before exiting, she threw him that cheeky little grin of hers.

He dashed over to her before she exited and seized her arm in grip that nearly cut off her circulation. "You want me to kill you," he muttered as he stared straight into her blank eyes.

She blinked. "Absolutely. Not."

Taking her by the shoulders, he shoved her against the door jam. "I swore I would avenge Tornac."

"Such devotion. People will wonder," she chimed with innuendo.

He slammed her against the door jam again. "I will kill you. I will find a way. And you will curse the day you were born as I stand over you, watching as you slowly, painfully, slip into the void. I will be the last thing you see."

"Is that so?" she asked softly, not breaking his gaze. "I wager you'll be a puppet on strings, manipulated by King Galbatorix, before that day comes." With agility and speed, she twisted her way out of Murtagh's grip and dashed into the shadowy corridor.

Murtagh muttered several choice derogatory words directed at his fleeing intruder. In a sudden burst of rage, he threw his dagger into the back of the door.

Luana's visit left a foul and ominous pit in his stomach. She was not a woman to trifle with; her sudden appearance disconcerted him.

Murtagh wrestled his dagger from the door.

_Luana, Luana, Luana. _He turned her name over in his mind as memories of their past swept before him. He had once considered her a friend, with benefits albeit, but that was long ago. Long, long ago it seemed now. In truth, it had only been a couple of years. Regrettably, he had trusted her more than he should have. More than he had with others. And he had paid a bitter price.

She had betrayed him and Tornac to Galbatorix on the night of his bid for freedom.

He was determined to kill her, but he realized his quest for vengeance would have to wait. She was an integral member of the Black Hand; of that he was certain. If he were to brazenly murder her, he would have to endure Galbatorix's wrath and he believed that the fulfillment of his revenge should not be tainted with a royal reprimand. He would have to kill her quietly and outside Galbatorix's suspicions.

He retrieved Zar'roc from the floor. It was significantly lighter than his old hand-and-a-half sword and its weight still surprised him. Bitter regret welled in him. He missed his old sword now and wished he had not left it with his brother. It had been a fine and worthy sword.

"Times have changed," he sighed to himself. As he said it, loneliness dampened his smoldering anger.

He withdrew the blade. The handle was comfortable and seemingly tailored to his hand, but it was still foreign to his grasp. A shudder rippled down his back. The sword's handle had been made just for his father Morzan so why should it not have fit Murtagh's own grip? He performed a few exercises. It certainly was a superior blade to his old one, but it would still require time to become intimately acquainted with his new blade.

_My inheritance_, he thought. A strange gleam rested in his eyes as he gazed up and down the crimson hued blade of his nefarious father.

It seemed odd to him that he should now possess it. Eragon had wielded it for so long. He recalled their sparring, the battles they had fought alongside each other, and more recently, their fierce confrontation on the Burning Plains. He recalled all the swirling emotions he felt when he first saw it back in that cave where Brom had died. At first it had repulsed him, yet deep down, when he was honest with himself, he had wanted it all along. It was a profound part of his identity.

Then he pondered Galbatorix's possible reactions to his acquisition of Morzan's sword. He wondered what would have happened if Brom had not taken the blade and it had come into Galbatorix's possession. Would Galbatorix have passed it along to him? Truly, the sword was worth more than all the fortunes of the nobility gathered in Galbatorix's court. Murtagh was shrewd enough to conclude that the sword was worth more than material wealth to the king. It was the sword of his oldest, most tried and true servant.

Murtagh returned the blade to its sheath as feelings of uncertainty and dread threatened to overwhelm him entirely. He stood there in the dim light with the resplendent sword of his father lying in his hands, looking at it but without really seeing it, lost in the blade's long, twisted history.

* * *

><p>Luana sprinted to a seldom used stairway after fleeing from Murtagh. Her meeting with him flustered her more than she was willing to admit. She brushed the memories aside. Murtagh meant nothing to her apart from being a serious threat to her life. She scowled. She would give Duthind a piece of her mind.<p>

She sighed as she sidled along, picking at a wayward thread on the hem of her shirt. It had not been her idea to see him tonight and it never would have been her idea. As Murtagh reminded her, she never returned to past lovers.

But the authority of the Empire cared little for her personal code of conduct.

Treading silently down a narrow hallway, she reflected on Murtagh's appearance. It was the first time she had seen him since she had wounded him with her betrayal and that was about a year ago. And though he was still clearly Murtagh, his appearance was haggard, hard, and fierce.

She realized he had always looked that way but recent events had only pronounced the brooding frown, the distrusting brown eyes where a fire smoldered beneath the surface. She had seen it in his murderous gaze. Granted, she wouldn't have expected anything else from him considering their past.

Her journey led her to an inconspicuous door where she muttered a few words of the ancient language and allowed herself in. Shutting the door behind her, she recited several more words of power and descended down a spiral stairwell. Low burning sconces set in the wall cast just enough light to illuminate the shadowy steps.

The stairs emptied onto a brightly lit and spacious chamber. The chamber contained sleek furniture of a blackish hue. The design of each fixture contained no curves. It was all straight lines, giving the room an orderly and austere atmosphere. Nothing adorned the stone walls, save for the sconces that held burning torches. The room was purely designed with functionality in mind.

Across the room an older gentleman sat behind a massive desk reading a sheaf of parchment. The surface of the desk was clear except for a few eclectic, sinister ornaments.

"You have returned sooner than expected." His voice was soft and cultured, and devoid of warmth. The man did not look up from his reading.

"I made contact with him," she said as she entered the vaulted space. With a keen gaze she watched him set aside the parchment. He was in his fifties, she guessed, but was doing physically well for his age. He was trim and his loose clothing concealed surprising strength and agility.

He looked at her with gray eyes the shade and sheen of polished slate. She thought it was a sickly color.

"And what did you glean from this meeting?"

She sat in the chair positioned directly opposite him.

"He nearly killed me as-"

"So he has not forgotten?"

She frowned. She hated it when he interrupted. "As I _predicted_. So, to answer your question, Duthind: no, Murtagh has not forgotten."

A moment of silence passed between them as he studied her imperiously. Disappointment riddled his features.

"This was a harebrained idea," she remarked.

"It would be best if you kept such opinions to yourself," said the man sternly.

"It would be best if you listened to my opinions. I betrayed the man once already. The chances of me regaining his confidence is nonexistent."

"If King Galbatorix and I did not believe you were capable, then we would have assigned someone else. Someone whose credentials are inferior to yours and that would not be expedient. Your history with him is exceedingly useful to the King."

"Don't assume I know what's going through that blasted head of his."

"You carried on your love affair with him for, what was it, approximately half a year? That is more than a sufficient amount of time to assess a man's practices and beliefs, especially for someone with your training."

She glowered at Duthind, her fingers gripping the keen edges of the chair's armrests. "I am certain his _practices_ and _beliefs_ of the past are no longer of import. He is not the same-"

"Luana, this isn't about those things."

"You said it was." Now she was just being plain obnoxious.

Duthind raised his eyebrows. "The young man is clearly out of control. If he continues on this reckless path-"

"Then I suggest Galbatorix take control. I won't be Murtagh's nanny." Luana gave the man a hard stare, serious again.

"We have been through this once. I know your arguments, but who are we to argue with our king? I suggest you work out a strategy for captivating Murtagh's attentions instead of sulking. We have so little time." Duthind withdrew a new sheaf of parchment and a quill. "And you're not playing nanny; you're playing, to put it politely, mistress."

"No."

"Luana, this is unprofessional."

Luana snapped to her feet and placed both hands on the desk and leaned over, forcing Duthind to give her his undivided attention. "We left professional weeks ago."

The man glowered at her, the slate in his eyes transforming into steel. "I may not be Galbatorix, but I do represent him. Respect will do more for you than belligerence."

Luana's face hardened. Every scathing and hateful word was ready to spring from her mouth but discipline held her tongue. "Very well. Then I want an increase in pay. The stakes are higher now. I want compensation and I want it now."

"We'll discuss it at our next scheduled meeting. And you had best come prepared with a modified attitude and significant data."

With a sudden, slight bow, she started for the exit.

"Wait just a moment!"

Luana stopped and turned to look at him.

"I have not dismissed you," he said, smirking.

"Technically you did. I believe your exact words were 'I suggest you work out a strategy for captivating Murtagh's attentions instead of sulking.'" She paused dramatically. "'We have _so_ little time.'"

"Luana! If you please." His temper flared and subsided.

She stood facing him, arms crossed over her chest.

"Know this. Murtagh is capable of showing mercy. He bestowed it upon Eragon. Perhaps he will to you."

She glowered at him before leaving the chamber in stony silence.

* * *

><p><em>Murtagh?<em>

Murtagh started from his reverie. He had retired to his armchair after Luana had gone, brooding over recent events between dozing off occasionally.

_You__'__re __still __awake?_ Murtagh queried as he rubbed his eyes with his palms.

_Has he visited you?_

Murtagh was about to ask who "he" was when he realized what Thorn was asking. He felt his stomach drop as if he had been riding Thorn and had taken a sudden dive. _No._

Murtagh sensed the frustration and impatience that consumed Thorn's thoughts, undermined by a new contempt for Murtagh. _Then __he __has __not __seen __you. __Shruikan __has __only __stared __at __me __since __we __arrived. __I __can__'__t __relax __because __you __had __to __play __the __village __idiot!_

Murtagh scowled. Agitated, he got to his feet and began pacing the room. _What__'__s __done __is __done, __Thorn._

_Am __I __supposed __to __derive __comfort __from __that? _Thorn snipped.

_What __do __you __want __me __do?_ Murtagh demanded. _Shout it from the roof-tops that __I__'__m __the __fool __of __the __age? __Grovel __for __your __forgiveness__?_

Thorn was silent a moment, hatred flaring. _I __want __you __to __never __forget __the __torment __you __have __brought __upon __me. __I __hope __he __flays __open __your __mind._ With a huff, Thorn withdrew from a stunned Murtagh.

Murtagh leaned on the windowsill, his hands gripping the smooth marble stone for support. He and stared out into the inky night. A chilling isolation pressed upon him like a thick fog. His thoughts swarmed with memories of his wretched past. It seemed to him he could never do right.

His loneliness gave way to guilt. Thorn would have to suffer punishment on his account; and the intensity of Thorn's discipline would not correlate with the dragon's disobedience, for it's purpose was only to intensify Murtagh's punishment.

_Eragon __would __never__…_ He couldn't form the rest of the thought; it was too painful. Eragon and Saphira shared a bond that he and Thorn could only hope to mimic.

_Eragon_, thought Murtagh bitterly.

In the dwindling hours of the night, Murtagh began to forget why he had ever released Eragon. Eragon no longer seemed a friend, or a brother, to him. His appearance had changed, his skills had somewhat increased, but what struck Murtagh the hardest was that Eragon had suggested that he commit suicide, and when Murtagh had refused, Eragon had attempted to murder him. Eragon's attack had so surprised him there on that plateau that he had not fully assessed the situation. Regret consumed him as he realized that Eragon was emerging more and more as a stranger to him and less as a friend and ally.

_I__'__ve __lost __Tornac__…__Eragon__…__and __Thorn._ Murtagh blinked hard to shut in his grief and ram it back down into the confines of his stony, thorn infested heart.

Exhausted, Murtagh abandoned his tortured thoughts and swiftly fell asleep.


	2. Day of Reckoning

Murtagh was already awake when dawn lit his room in shades of gray. He wished he had slept longer, but routine and apprehension interfered; yet it was not so strong as to persuade him to rise from his bed where he was so wonderfully comfortable.

He studied the tapestry on the wall opposite him. He couldn't make out the finer details in this light, but he knew what they were. He had gazed upon this splendid work of art for years. The tapestry depicted a panoramic view of Uru'Baen and the lands beyond the metropolis. The intricacy and amount of detail contained in the tapestry captivated his attention. The accuracy of the artist was remarkable. His gaze drifted from the tall buildings, the ornately adorned homes, and ancient monuments to the land beyond the city and the gleaming expanse of the horizon. He yearned for the freedom the image communicated to him. The sheer openness enchanted him; he ached for it. Those days on the open range, from the day when he had fled the city to his meeting with Eragon, had filled him with a sense of purpose, a satisfaction he had never known in the royal city, and most of all, a sense of healing and a cleansing of the spirit. He was resentful that he would never know the thrill or the satisfaction of wide open liberty ever again.

It was then he sensed something was amiss. And it wasn't the tapestry. It was in the cool, still air of dawn.

His pulse quickened. Sweat beaded on his brow and palms. He was not alone. His skin tingled with the sensation. Inhaling deeply, he quelled the panic and fortified his mental defenses. Slowly, careful not to betray to his alerted senses, he reached for the dagger he kept in reserve under his pillow. The tips of his fingers had only brushed the hilt of the dagger when a force greater than any energy he could conjure on his own, paralyzed his limbs. For several excruciatingly slow minutes, Murtagh lay helpless in his bed, combating his terror and the invisible bonds that paralyzed him.

An envoy of at least half a dozen robed magicians entered his bedroom, silent and as fluid as wraiths. Dark hoods shielded their faces. Three of them bore their right hand in his direction, shuddering slightly with the struggle to keep their victim powerless. Mentally, Murtagh flung himself at the invaders, desperately attempting to breech their own defenses. He rallied a particularly savage offense against the magician nearest him, but it was to no avail. With utter terror he watched as two of the tallest of the figures yanked away the bed clothes that covered him and summoned him forward with magic. The others took hold of his rigid limbs and carried him out as if he were a mere plank of wood. A passerby would have thought they carried a dead man en route to his tomb.

Murtagh made every effort to call out to Thorn, but he was consistently rebuffed. He pressed harder against the barrier that his assailants had erected. It was futile; they had him sealed in a cocoon of enchantments. Memories of Tronjheim and the Twins flooded him. _No,__not__again!_ His helplessness galled him.

At journey's end, Murtagh was released from the binding the spell and deposited into a lightless room. Cold, smooth, and unforgiving stone received him.

Before he could right himself and take action, he felt a sharp prick in his neck. The sedative spread over his body and he felt, with anguish, all his defenses crumble under the drug's effects. His thoughts became murky; he was vulnerable.

Moments passed. In the dark, the passage of time was nigh impossible to track. The silence was incredible. The rush of his breath and the drum beat of his heart was the only sound his ears perceived. He stood in the dark on unsteady feet. He kept his arms out, ready to strike out at the slightest provocation.

"Show yourself," Murtagh invited. He wiped his forearm over his sweat-drenched brow. His heart was hammering. "Show yourselves!" he shouted savagely. "I know you're here!"

Silence.

Suspense. It was so simple, yet incredibly effective. Galbatorix favored it among his many other psychological weapons.

An explosion of high pitched ringing penetrated his mind. A yell of anguished surprise escaped Murtagh.

And so it began.

Murtagh clutched the sides of his head, howling from the intensity of sensations within his mind. It seemed as if all the vessels in his head were throbbing and on the verge of bursting. For hours it seemed to last. Nausea swept him to the floor where he roughly fell on his hands and knees. His stomach threatened to scramble up his throat.

Foreign and malicious consciousnesses descended on his mind, tearing through him like a pack of ravenous wolves mauling a downed dear, rooting around for the choicest pieces of meat. The pain was debilitating. He writhed on the cold rough floor as memories were examined under merciless eyes. There were so many presences rushing through his mind that it was impossible for him to discern exactly what they discovered. Somewhere in the din within his mind he perceived Eragon's voice plead, "_If __you __do __this, __Murtagh, __you__'__ll __be __lost __forever_." Suddenly invigorated, Murtagh mentally launched at a presence that bore down on this precious memory. He assaulted the presence until he heard another memory blare Eragon's accusation: "_You __have __become __your __father._" He heard himself retort, "_No, __not __my __father. __I__'__m __stronger __than __Morzan __ever __was_."

Murtagh rushed to the presence that had ripped into this memory, when another memory caught his attention: the enraged horror he felt as Eragon drove Zar'roc into Thorn's flank. Thorn's yowl of pain rippled through him.

Before Murtagh could react, another memory seized upon him, with Zar'roc being the bridge that unleashed Eragon's bitter words, echoing painfully loud across his mind, "_We're nothing alike. I don't have a scar on my back anymore_."

Rage ignited Murtagh and he sprung to his feet, shouting "Stop this!" He staggered blindly in the dark, seething with rage, determined to lay his hands on someone's throat. The awful ringing blared in him again. Murtagh fought against it, determined to assail at least one of the villains slicing through his mind as a blade passes through butter.

And still the high-pitched pinging increased in volume when Murtagh had thought it impossible. It continued until he found himself once again on his hands and knees retching like a drunk into a gutter.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the sound in his head vanished; it was replaced with roaring silence.

Bereft of the will to resist, he crumpled to the floor and rolled onto his back, his hands and legs trembling. A cold perspiration left him feeling chilled and feverish. The bitterness of vomit coated his mouth and his parched throat made swallowing difficult.

A whispering of footsteps stirred him from his stupor. Murtagh shut his eyes; his torture was not yet complete.

Magic once again bound his limbs as several hands grasped him and transported him to a raised slab of stone. They deposited him on his stomach with his head hung over the edge. His chin scraped on the slab's rough, unfinished edge.

Several pairs of hands stroked his limbs and back. Other hands bound him to the stone slab with wide, rough strips of leather. One went over the back of his neck. Two went over each his arms, one just above the elbows and the other over his wrists. They also bound each of his legs, with a strip over his thighs, his calves, and ankles. His feet hung over the edge.

"How is your scar, Murtagh?" whispered an airy voice.

"Are you ashamed of the mark your father left you?" whispered another but at a deeper register.

Murtagh refused to dwell on such questions. He rallied his discipline, preparing himself for whatever painful thing they were about to inflict. He swallowed the panic that threatened his stony composure as he lost his freedom of motion.

"Does it still hurt?" sneered a raspy voice.

A finger traced his scar through his shirt.

Murtagh cursed the darkness, wishing he could see something to focus on.

_Relax, __you __fool_, he told himself.

He felt a razor thin strip of cold on his neck; the edge of a blade, a very sharp blade kissed his skin. Goosebumps broke out over him.

He heard the blade sever the threads of his shirt. Cool, damp air hugged his exposed skin as the fabric fell away from him.

_Damn. __I __liked __this __shirt_—

His skin crawled as the blade traced the unsightly ridge of damaged skin, starting at his right shoulder and slowly gliding down to his left hip.

_Galbatorix __has __a __flair __for __the __dramatic_, he thought bitterly, trying to console himself with a little black humor. _Think __of __something __to __focus __on. __Think. __Focus__…__. Thorn-_

He felt the blade as it was inserted near his right shoulder. At first, it was only an odd sensation, the coldness of the blade seeming to numb the skin. But as the blood surfaced, the pain pricked and stung. It was familiar; he had endured similar cuts and scrapes.

He reached for a deep breath and the blade dipped a little deeper and the pain burned suddenly, taking his breath away in surprise.

The blade continued to follow the scar down, down, down. The blood began to trickle into rivulets across his back and eventually dripped down his sides. For a moment, he wasn't sure which was worse: the obvious pain of being sliced open or being unable to relieve the tickling sensation as the blood rolled down the sides of his chest and hips.

"We can do this all day," sighed a wispy voice.

It dawned on Murtagh that these same magicians who tortured him were likely the same that had tutored him.

When the blade finished its merciless course, it was removed.

"You know, that didn't produce the effect I had been hoping for. I didn't hear any cries for mercy," remarked a deeper, darker whisperer; it was almost a growl.

Murtagh rolled his eyes. In his experience, getting tortured tended towards the melodramatic.

"Maybe he went to sleep," snickered another.

There was a moment's pause. He heard a splash. A second later pain flared across his open wound. Grunting, he strained at his restraints, desperate to flee in search of relief.

"Perhaps we should dig a little deeper," suggested the wispy whisperer.

"With a thicker blade," added the dark whisperer.

He heard a rustling by his ear. A puff of warm breath brushed against his cheek. "Are you stronger than Morzan?" a magician rasped. The speaker's hand stroked Murtagh's mane of hair. The hand was moist and it caught and pulled at his wavy, tussled locks.

Murtagh remained silent, clenching his jaw. He refused to give them the pleasure of his voice.

"Arrogant little blighter, isn't he?" commented the dark whisperer.

And so it went for several hours until it seemed to him they had completely skinned his back.

* * *

><p>Murtagh's arms ached as his captors dragged his body along the floor of the dark chamber and out into a torch-lit corridor of grimy stone. The tops of his bare feet scraped along the cold, uneven floor, scouring the skin on his toes and feet. His bleary gaze drifted between the floor and the bloody front of his night shift.<p>

His back was still a bloody mess. The magicians had sealed up the deeper wounds, but were content to leave several to dribble. Every bump and jar along the way to his rooms was like reliving the entire process of them drawing their knives over his scarred skin.

After what seemed liked hours later, Murtagh was dumped unceremoniously onto his sitting room floor. He did not stir from where he was deposited. He heard the footsteps of his escorts recede. When he could no longer hear them, his tense muscles slowly relaxed. The fibers of the rug he laid upon pressed painfully into his cheek. It stung but then what was that compared to his pounding headache? To his tender back? To his quivering, aching limbs? To his nauseated stomach? To his burning throat? He clenched his eyes and jaw shut in a futile effort to stave off the pain.

"You make the most confounding choices."

Murtagh's eyes flicked open. His breath caught in his throat. _Not __him. __Not __now._

He didn't have to look to know that King Galbatorix peered down at him with disdain and that the skin between his eyebrows was furrowed into deep crevasses of contempt.

"Remember this position, Murtagh. The one that you are in now, for it is my wish that your _will_ would lie thus before me."

Murtagh refrained from answering. He gazed at his hand that lay several inches from his nose. His skin was the color of hot coals with splotches of black and blue. Now he could put a visual to the throbbing sensation he felt there and wondered if it was broken.

He heard the king rise from a chair, its frame creaking as the king's weight was removed. The toe of a black boot came between his gaze and his hand. It was only an inch or so from the tip of his nose and his thumb rested against the other side. Murtagh could smell the new leather mingled with the pungent, sour scent of the polish a servant had applied to the boots that morning. Murtagh thought he could make out his pitiful reflection in the semi-glossy finish.

"I cannot utilize the threat of the death to temper your will." The boot rose off the floor slightly. The taut leather creaked softly. "No," he continued softly, "death is not an option available to us."

Galbatorix's boot shifted slightly then hovered over Murtagh's slightly splayed hand.

"Physical punishment is also futile." Murtagh watched with irritation as Galbatorix's foot slowly descended. His mind urged him to move, but his body refused to respond, too weary with exhaustion. Murtagh could only stare as the black boot slowly lowered and flattened his hand. A moment later, pain sprang up his arm in sharp, throbbing jolts.

"And mental punishment does nothing to curb your lust for rebellion." Galbatorix stood motionless, his full weight upon his hand. Murtagh's face reddened with the pain and inhaled sharply, his gaze fixed on the black boot that was the source of his suffering. "I confess I'm at a bit of a loss," Galbatorix continued and he lowered himself into a crouch. The pain in Murtagh's hand intensified; sweat began to coat his brow. The veins in his neck throbbed as he fought the urge to howl in his pain.

"I don't know what else to do, but to invoke your true name."

Murtagh's gaze shot up to see Galbatorix leering at him, a faint, wry smile perched on his thin, pale lips. Considering his age, the king retained the look of a man in his prime. His hair was dark and thick with only the slightest trace of silver at his temples and over his ears. His skin was smooth. If he possessed any scars, they were thin and nearly imperceptible. Galbatorix's manicured beard was trimmed close to the skin. It was thick and rich in color so that it appeared as black velvet. But the King's most striking feature was his eyes. Intense dark, dark brown eyes, almost black, dipped into Murtagh's glazed view. His eyes glittered with frustration and other dark thoughts Murtagh cared not to divine.

"Perhaps I am the one at fault. I ought to have possessed the foresight that would have spared you and myself the frustration of our disagreements over orders. But know this, Murtagh. I desired to practice mercy," Galbatorix said in a feigned voice of sincerity. "I had confidence in you."

Murtagh felt his crushed fingers growing cold and numb.

Galbatorix bowed his head slightly with faux consideration. "I offered you the freedom to choose, to choose correctly your path, but I see that wisdom is beyond your grasp. That you simply cannot shoulder the burden of making responsible decisions."

At this Murtagh forgot his discomfort. He felt only fear. But if these words had been spoken by any other, Murtagh would have lashed out in violence.

"You have tested me, Murtagh. You have squandered my patience. I am left with no other choice but to curtail your freedom."

"No," Murtagh grunted. His voice was barely working.

"Yes."

Then, out of some deep and hidden reserve, driven by an irresistible urge to flee, Murtagh ripped himself up from the floor, yanking his hand out from under the King's foot. His flesh stung as the scrapes began to bleed.

"No!" Murtagh shouted, at last finding his voice. He had his hands out before him, instinctually trying to ward off the man who threatened him. "That I cannot allow." His determination to protect his precious little freedom blocked the pain that would have otherwise rendered him immobile.

Galbatorix, who was only momentarily nonplussed, rose to his full stature and watched him with a condescending smirk.

"I swear it to you, High King, I will fulfill whatever you ask from this point—"

"Murtagh, stop. Please, we have been through this. You have sworn this to me already. Your word, your honor; worthless."

"No, no! I've changed! I want-"

He searched himself for anything he could use to bargain with Galbatorix. In his panic, his mental defenses were disorganized and Galbatorix seized his opportunity.

They grappled with each other mentally. Murtagh made every effort to throw him off. He tossed a chair at Galbatorix; it was batted aside with magic. The struggle was short-lived and Galbatorix had backed him physically and mentally into a corner, crouching and desperate for mercy.

"I have Zar'roc!" shouted Murtagh. "I have my father's blade!"

Time seemed to stop.

"You have it?" queried Galbatorix, his voice just above a whisper. His expression was impossible to read.

"Consider it a down payment for Eragon and Saphira." Murtagh watched Galbatorix warily. His breaths were quick and shallow and his skin felt as if it were on fire. The wounds on his back threatened to overwhelm him with insurmountable pain. The king studied him. "Please, allow me to show you," Murtagh said as evenly as possible as he stared up at the towering stature of Galbatorix. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face.

For a moment no one moved. They each had their gaze fastened on one another.

Then, after what seemed like hours to Murtagh, still hunched uncomfortably in a corner of his sitting room, the King stepped aside.

Using his hands, Murtagh clung to the wall for support as he got to his feet. Once he was steady he led Galbatorix in his bedroom who followed him upon his heels.

Murtagh went his large armoire that was nestled into a stone alcove. He reached his injured hand into the narrow space between the stone and the wood and withdrew, with great pain, the sheathed sword of his illustrious father. Murtagh's heart leapt into his throat as he displayed it before for the King.

Galbatorix stared at it before slowly reaching for the sword's pommel. Grasping the sheath with one hand and the pommel in the other, he withdrew the nefarious weapon. Holding it so it's blade pointed upward, he inspected the blade up and down. Murtagh saw in Galbatorix's eyes the resurrection of the long buried past.

"We meet again at last, Zar'roc," whispered the king as he passed his index finger over the flat of the blade, tracing over the black inscription, _Misery_.

He looked to Murtagh suddenly. "This is indeed fortuitous. I am pleased that it is once again in my presence and service."

Galbatorix took a step or so away from Murtagh and wielded the sword in a series of swift, intricate maneuvers.

"A fine sword," he said after he had finished with it. He replaced the sword in its sheath. "Depriving Eragon of this sword will be to your advantage." The king's countenance darkened. "Do not think that this lessens my opinion of your recent failure. I had asked for Eragon and Saphira; not Zar'roc."

Galbatorix removed the sheathed sword form Murtagh's hands and laid it carefully on the bed.

The king strolled over to Murtagh, hands clasped behind his back, and rooted himself within inches of his puppet Rider. Murtagh could make out every faintly emerging wrinkle and every fiber that quivered with suppressed rage. Murtagh stood his ground but lowered his eyes. His stomach fluttered; and all the while his back throbbed. He could feel a drop of blood slowly roll down his spine.

The king began to pace around Murtagh in a tight circle. His polished leather boots of Urgal hide creaked with each step. "You ran away when I first bestowed on you a mighty undertaking. You fought my soldiers, our soldiers, at Tronjheim. You resisted me and the Twins upon your return."

He paused and stood just behind Murtagh's left shoulder, his voice softening when he resumed his speech. "And then Thorn hatched for you. I had never seen you so enthusiastic about your future. I thought you had finally become as a son to me. But…" Galbatorix's voice hardened and he resumed his circling gait. "Shruikan discovered you and that red dragon of yours were conspiring against me."

Galbatorix stopped once more and rooted himself in front of Murtagh, whispering with venom, "I made you both swear unyielding loyalty to me." He paused, and when he resumed, his passion magnified his voice. "I thought that would have sealed you forever in my services, but clearly it wasn't enough. Eragon and Saphira are not here." Galbatorix's mighty hands grasped the collar of Murtagh's shirt, popping several threads. "Don't you realize that every day your cursed brother is getting stronger and prolonging a war that should have ended in one day!" A bit of spittle landed on Murtagh's nose and cheek. "I CANNOT TRUST YOU!" he bellowed and threw Murtagh away from him.

Murtagh stumbled, but regained his balance. He let the violent tide of Galbatorix rush over him for what else could he do? Smart answers and protestations would only deteriorate his already poor standing with the enraged king.

Galbatorix stared long and hard at Murtagh, letting his acidic words seep into him. Then, sneering, he delivered, "You have been a grave disappointment. Your father, and I loathe to give him that title considering the vermin his seed produced…. Morzan, would be deeply ashamed to see what has become of his offspring. I should have killed you when he had failed to do so himself, but _I_ was merciful!"

He paused a moment, looking away as if trying to decide what to do next, and then raised a menacing face to Murtagh. "I will be taking no more chances with you," and the king muttered Murtagh's true name.

A feeling of detachment came over him as his panicking mind, writhing in protest, became strangely muted. Against his will, Murtagh's muscles caused him to kneel before his enslaver. Galbatorix reached out and wrapped his fingers around his chin. The king's contorted face of rage relaxed into a tense, malevolent expression. His gaze penetrated Murtagh to his core.

Galbatorix's orders, in the ancient language, came echoing to him: he was to acquire Eragon and Saphira when next they met. He was not to delay. He was not to deliberate. He was not to kill. He was to return, with them in tow, to Uru'baen immediately upon their capture. Any attempt to escape these demands would be met with such wrath as Murtagh had never experienced or could possibly imagine.

When the spell was complete, and the order permanently bestowed, Murtagh dropped to the floor, exhausted and grieved for the further loss of his freedom.

Galbatorix stared at him with cruel, merciless eyes. "It is a fate you have brought upon yourself." He departed, leaving the cursed and broken heap of a young man to steep in anguish.


	3. A Will to Defy

Luana, like Murtagh, was up with the sun. Unlike Murtagh, her reasons for rising were less sinister: running atop the lofty walls surrounding Uru'Baen.

The path was wide; three of the Empire's military wagons could trundle along abreast and still have ample room on either side. The elevation lent a breathtaking view. Fertile farmland surrounded the walls as far as the eye could see. Within the walls, magnificent towers and buildings of unearthly skill and beauty created an impressive skyline. A steady breeze often blew on the heights of the city, and on this morning, it granted Luana some relief from the sticky summer air.

As usual, she encountered innumerable soldiers on her run as well as several teams of stone masons. The walls required consistent maintenance. And on occasion, she spotted the average citizen out for a casual stroll.

It was an ambitious route, not just in length, but in difficulty. The broad pathway sloped steeply upwards as it neared the vicinity of Galbatorix's monstrous citadel and the stone shelf jutting over it and a portion of the city like an anvil. Where the slope began in the wall was an impressive gate of iron and bronze, housed in a granite frame and crowned with a guard tower. A small contingent of imposing soldiers guarded the pass. Their posts changed on a regular basis, and Luana, being a frequent visitor, knew most of them by name. Her Black Hand status permitted her access beyond the gate that was otherwise denied to the public.

On this particular, balmy morning, as Luana approached this secured section of wall, she saw the soldiers had company.

Duthind.

She cursed.

Two guards watched her progress from the small tower over the gate. Five other guards shifted about before the gateway, lurking in the early morning shadows. Duthind remained stationary among them with his arms crossed over his chest, a sturdy gray green pillar crowned with a tuft of thin, wispy, ashen hair that whipped about in the breeze. She thought he rather resembled a monochromatic dandelion minus the eagle-like stare he bore into her as she advanced.

"They say you are a frequent visitor," Duthind said upon her arrival. To Luana, in the early morning light, his face reminded her of an ancient marble tombstone with its features withered away.

She ignored his remark and glanced at the five soldiers. A couple of them possessed a sheepish, guilty expression, having seen the displeasure wrought on her face. Shame on them for not informing Duthind otherwise about her habits.

She returned her gaze to Duthind. "What brings you here? Can't have been the view."

"What do you suppose brings me here?" Duthind asked, his tone souring.

"Am I your keeper?" she snipped. She brushed a hand across the back of her neck, removing a film of sweat, and wiped it against her cinched plum colored linen tunic. She was aware that one of the five soldiers was watching her with eager eyes. He was a rookie at the guard station. She tossed him a teasing wink. A deep blush colored his cheeks and his fellow comrades chuckled.

Duthind, following her distracted gaze, bestowed the soldiers with a withering look. He touched Luana at the elbow to nudge her down from the gate. She strode ahead several paces to stay out of his reach.

They traversed several yards before Duthind resumed the conversation.

"Do you have a strategy?"

"Of course."

She did not. Finding a way back into Murtagh's good graces was perhaps the biggest challenge she had recently encountered. Moving forward with the Empire's scheme would be perilous to her life; Murtagh was not a man to be trifled with. She heard of his new found super-strength, and feared, though she was loathe to admit it, he could destroy her instantly if she wasn't exceedingly careful. She envied his power and marveled that he had so much.

"I would like to hear it," Duthind said in a tone just shy of mocking.

Luana detached herself from his side and leaned against the wall's thick stony rail, pretending to be interested in the view. The gritty stone was cool against the skin of her arms. Her gaze surveyed dew-drenched rooftops and shadowy cobbled streets. The sun's waxing rays glimmered upon the ancient Elven structures carved from a greenish stone. In the early golden light, they almost appeared to be made of polished bronze.

"You can hear about it when I've done it," she smirked. She tapped the tips of her hands upon the stone as if she were hammering out a rhythm upon a drum, blatantly conveying to Duthind her impatience.

But it wasn't just Murtagh's incomparable strength she would have to contend with. Murtagh was a man of principal. Treachery was intolerable; vows must be honored. She knew she was hard pressed to find a chink in Murtagh's formidable armor of self-determined righteousness.

Duthind joined her at the wall. "The king is exacting discipline on Murtagh today for his deliberate act of insubordination. In fact, it's being carried out at this very moment and I must be going shortly; I've been asked to supervise and pass along pertinent information to the king. Are you listening?"

He paused, waiting for her to make some sort of reply.

Luana clenched her jaw slightly. The moment Duthind mentioned Murtagh's discipline her mind discovered a seedling of a potential strategy. Her mind slowly turned it about, pondering its efficacy.

"I only inform you so you may plan accordingly. That is, if you have heard anything I've-"

"I heard."

The seed of an idea was still in the early stages of germination within her mind, its burgeoning roots seeking out vital information from her store of memories and proven tactics. While the idea was still too opaque for her to identify anything concrete, it was latching itself upon the concept of distraction.

Casually, her fingers loosened the leather cord at the neckline of her tunic.

"It'll be a hot one today," she stated, keeping her tone friendly. She pulled open the uppermost part of her tunic and coquettishly fanned herself with the excess fabric, providing Duthind with, if he was watching, an enticing view.

Observing him from the corner of her eye, she swelled with pride as Duthind's head dipped and angled ever so slightly towards her, a slight pause accompanying his movements before once again resuming his business-like manner. It had all transpired in under a minute.

"His punishment-"

"Torture," she interjected. She was familiar with the Empire's way of addressing delinquency among its ranks. "No need to censor yourself."

Duthind ignored her remark entirely and plowed onward with his speech.

"-will be rather potent. He may acquire a new degree of unapproachable savagery or he may surrender entirely to your eminent charm." His voice slowed and its register dropped ever so slightly as he neared the end of his sentence.

Luana was brushing her fingers across her collarbone, still experimenting with the power of distraction. She watched him raise a hand; it hovered in the air, uncertain of its direction before landing upon the wall.

"You might as well be offering me to the Ra'zac."

A flock of pigeons scurried in an erratic flutter from a nearby building.

"I suspect he will be receptive of your entreaties," Duthind quietly remarked.

"What do you know?" she asked sharply, suspicious of his opinion. She doubted Murtagh would be receptive no matter what physical or mental state he was in.

"If he can show Eragon mercy, then surely he can afford you some as well."

"No. I betrayed him. Eragon did not."

"But he did."

This brief sentence was followed by a lengthy pause. A cacophony of barking dogs, colorful swearing, clattering wheels, and clopping of horses' hooves rose into the heavy morning air from below, filling the lull in conversation.

Duthind savored her surprised silence, and a smug expression settled over his stern features.

"It was discovered earlier this morning among Murtagh's memories that Eragon attempted to take Murtagh's life. And Murtagh still choose to leave Eragon to be a servant of the Varden."

"Are we finished now?"

Duthind's proud smirk crumbled into a frown. "Murtagh will be at your disposal early this evening. The King still plans to work with him this afternoon." Duthind turned to go, but then hesitated, his eyes lingering on her. "He will be desperate for solace, no matter what form it may come in. Pray you are just that."

Luana watched him stride away and descend a stone staircase near the gate to the city floor below. Her mind struggled to make sense of Murtagh's merciful act. It went against everything she knew about of him, and yet not.

She would have to tread carefully indeed to regain Murtagh's trust.

* * *

><p>Nefalia's heart pounded in her chest. He had done nothing but stare at her since he arrived and that had been nearly an hour ago.<p>

She cast a quick glance at Marla. Her apprehension furrowed each line on her downturned face, her gaze intent on the sewing in her hands. Her lips were pressed tightly together as though to seal in, or out, some horrible thing.

The tension in the room was suffocating. It was rarer than rare that Galbatorix would sit with them. And this was the same room he had nearly demolished only yesterday. The damage had been repaired, the furniture replaced, but the memory remained and haunted the ladies.

Nefalia and Marla had been sewing together on a dress that had been consuming their attentions for the last several weeks. Out of respect for the king upon his arrival, they had set it aside. When it became clear that Galbatorix's intentions did not include conversation, more than twenty minutes into his visit, Marla asked most humbly if they might resume their work. He merely nodded and the women resumed their painstaking labor with quiet unease.

The three of them sat in a small circle around a table bearing a pot of tea that had assumed room temperature long ago. The tea cups were spotless, the sugar bowl still wore its lid, and the six pastries that had accompanied the tea, remained untouched.

"I was under the impression that ladies are loquacious creatures."

Marla jolted with a breathy gasp at the king's sudden intonation and nearly dropped the sewing in her hands.

Nefalia' reaction was more subtle but just as poignant; a shudder that started at the shoulders and wriggled down to her hips. His voice was like warm, scented oil gliding down your back, generating a curious sensation of pleasure blended with revulsion.

Riding a wave of sudden boldness, Nefalia ventured, "They are if they have something to talk about. And we have nothing to talk about."

Galbatorix tilted his head, considering her with an imperceptible expression. "That was far from enlightening," he remarked.

"There is nothing to talk about because you deny us any experience outside your boundaries."

"Those boundaries serve a purpose." His voice was remarkably even considering her outright disrespect.

"Imprisonment," she muttered.

She had said it before she could stop herself. The slick, crimson fabric felt damp in her sweaty palms and the needle felt as if it were coated in oil.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Marla look at her, astonishment reddening her round cheeks.

"You consider this life imprisonment?" he asked flatly with a hint of irritation. He gestured at the tea tray. "Fine food. Expensive wine. Exotic tea. Costly clothes. That is your idea of imprisonment?"

She said nothing, struggling to focus on the work in her hands.

"Was not your former poverty imprisonment? Toiling away from sunrise to sunset; all your labor for naught. Poverty is a crueler master than I."

Silence. She stopped working and stared at the blood red fabric in her hands.

"Do you wish to retract your erroneous sentiments?" he asked.

She looked up from her work and looked at him directly, incensed that he should use her past against her.

"No."

The negative hung in the air among them for several seconds. Nefalia knew he hated the word when it was addressed to him. She clutched her sewing, waiting for the tirade to sweep over her.

It never came.

Galbatorix chuckled before it evolved into an all-out laugh. It was a robust laugh, but tarnished slightly with a bitter, biting edge.

"Rebellion seems to run in the blood of all Alagaesians." His voice had suddenly gone very cold, a stark contrast to his outburst of merriment. "I can be cruel and I can be kind. And I will always get the same result: a heart in revolt."

His verdict stunned her.

"If there be any god or gods out there, is it any wonder they have abandoned us?"

He allowed a moment's silence, his gaze boring into her.

"Of course…I myself am a rebel."

A corner of his mouth angled slightly upward into the smallest of smiles.

"The irony is uncanny."

Unsettled, she resumed her sewing, desperate for distraction. Desperate to fool him that his words did not pierce her with sickening dread.

_Why __isn__'__t __this __needle __going __through?_ she grumbled to herself as she struggled to push the needle up through the gathered fabric at the waist seam of the dress.

"Ow!"

It happened so suddenly. The needle had popped through the fabric and stabbed her. A bead of blood crowned the skin atop her left thumb.

"Allow me," Galbatorix said rising from his chair.

_No_. But she didn't dare tell him so.

He bent over her from behind to view the wound, his stature making her feel small and insignificant. She leaned away from him ever so slightly, but not enough to evade the aromatic musk that hovered about him. Strangely, it was a comforting, soothing scent.

"Fascinating. Just a little prick on the finger delivers so much pain." He withdrew a crisp ivory colored handkerchief from a pocket and draped it over her thumb. He embraced her thumb in a fist.

When the throbbing in her thumb ebbed away entirely, Galbatorix removed his fist with the handkerchief with a small flourish as if he were some street magician performing a trick. He smiled at her, and brushed the tips of his fingers over her cheek.

It was moments like this that filled her with the worst terror. It was horribly unnatural and completely unnerving that he possessed such powers. Magic-use disturbed her to the core.

He turned his attention to Marla. "After dinner this evening, prepare her for an evening alone with me. Your services will not be needed till dawn tomorrow." And without further ado, he departed from them.

Nefalia felt her stomach roll over. What Galbatorix requested was rare, which made living under him slightly more bearable. But just when the memories of the last time had dimmed, he would come to her again.

Nefalia rose from her seat. "I have a headache," she announced. "I'm going to go lie down."

Marla started to get up. "I'll go fetch a basin of cool water and-"

"No, that's not necessary. I'll try to sleep first."

When Nefalia got to her room, she went to her bed, but she did not lie down. Instead, she got on her hands and knees and reached under her bed. She grappled with the wood slats supporting the mattress until she freed a large leather satchel that was wedged and squeezed between the boards. She opened the flap and carefully shifted the contents around, assessing her supplies. She had everything she needed. Whatever she lacked, she was confident she would obtain down the road.

A small groan escaped her. She had been planning to make her escape that night but now she would have to postpone. If she were to flee now, Galbatorix would notice her absence sooner than would allow her to put as many leagues between her and Uru'Baen as possible. She would wait, wait for the opportune moment when she could give herself the largest span of time in which no one would miss her.

_I will be free._

* * *

><p>Murtagh joined Thorn in the roost shortly after midday, desperate for some semblance of normalcy.<p>

The roost was poorly lit; it was just too hot to keep the regal cavern illuminated. Even at this height, the roost caught no wind. It was one of those days where everything, even the air, was too hot to move. Thorn lazed about in the shadows, striving to cool himself upon the marble and obsidian tiled floors.

He took a seat on a sturdy wooden bench positioned beneath a feeble lantern near Thorn's allotted alcove. Murtagh removed his shirt, laying it beside him, but still chose to wear his dark leather vest. Not so much out of a sense of propriety, but to conceal the unsightly scar and bloody wounds that marred his muscled back.

In his hands was a lengthy scroll containing an inordinate amount of small, vapid writing. Assigned reading. Galbatorix believed his education should continue despite his physical and mental fatigue. The words passed through his eyes but failed to make an impression on his mind. Sleep threatened to take him.

He leaned his elbows upon his knees, the scroll drooping in his hands. He winced as the fabric of his vest pulled over his sensitive back. He looked at Thorn sprawled out among the shadows of the roost. In the weak light Murtagh could only perceive his dragon's silhouette. His massive chest rose and fell to a slow tempo.

"I wish you could read."

Thorn looked his way, a languid expression upon his scaly face and sighed. _I__'__m __glad __I __can__'__t_.

Murtagh produced a feeble chuckle_. __Perhaps __you__'__ll l__earn __one __day_.

Murtagh stood and dropped the scroll onto his seat. He began reaching above his head to stretch but suddenly stopped. Pain flared up and down his back. He desperately wanted to stretch his cramped muscles, but it was impossible to do so without tormenting himself.

Thorn surveyed his companion through the gloom with worry. Murtagh was covered with scrapes and blistered burns and spotted with bruises. He narrowed his eyes quickly to dispel his concern; he was still sore, physically as well as emotionally, over recent events. Blinking, he shifted his head around so his face was out of sight from his rider.

_Did __you __finish? _Thorn asked, sounding only half-interested to Murtagh.

_No._

_Must you always seek Galbatorix's disapproval?_

_I don't seek it. He gives it freely._

Murtagh walked over to Thorn. He could barely see him in the shadowy light. He could only make out his hulking silhouette against a bright, burning summer sky through the gigantic maw of the roost. He found the upper portion of Thorn's neck and stroked the hard but incredibly smooth scales.

_I'm not a cat._

Murtagh rolled his eyes, aggravated. _Couldn__'__t __you __be __pleasant __for __once?_

_Why should I be pleasant?_

Murtagh strode away from his cantankerous dragon towards the towering archway of the roost, hoping to catch just a wisp of a breeze. The view was breathtaking as it encompassed the entire city of Uru'Baen.

_Saphira __was __not __nearly __as __moody __as __you __are, _Murtagh remarked, staring off into the hazy blue sky beyond.

_She's never had reason to be. We'll see who the moodier one is once she's spent a few hours in this dungeon._

Murtagh tore his gaze from the view to Thorn, but the dragon was just far enough back so that the daylight did not illuminate him. Only a blob of dullish red hue indicated to Murtagh where he was sulking. _So __you __want __to __go __through __with __all __this, __do __you?_

_Yes. And so should you._

_Who's side are you on?_

Thorn lifted his head from the floor, his nostril's flaring, and his eyes narrowed. He was fearsome to behold. _On __your __side, __you __fool. __I __only __want __what __will __keep __us __from __Galbatorix__'__s __wrath._

Guilt surged through Murtagh.

"Understand, Thorn, that I _never_ wanted this," Murtagh declared fiercely.

_Then what did you want? You still haven't given me a convincing excuse._

Murtagh took a short breath. His left hand rested on Zar'roc's hilt that was belted about his waist. He was indignant about having to explain himself to Thorn, believing the red dragon more than likely understood. After a short moment's deliberation, he said rather curtly, _You __were __right, __Thorn. __I__'__m __sorry; __I __was __in __the __wrong._

_Sorry __for __**what **__exactly?_

Murtagh clenched his jaw so tight he felt pain erupt in his teeth from the pressure. _It was my mistake to let Eragon and Saphira have their freedom._

Thorn raised a scaly eyebrow, disbelief and hope swirling in his eyes. He sighed and a bit of flame shot in the air. _Don't bother me with apologies now. My wounds are still fresh._

At that moment Murtagh sensed a new set of eyes burrowing into him. He looked across the wide expanse of floor towards the dark recesses of the roost. Shruikan, blacker than the shadows around him, glowered at Murtagh with eyes that glinted in the few feeble rays of daylight that reached him. He snorted derisively; a short moment later Murtagh could smell the flaming breath push past him. Murtagh maintained his stare with the black dragon. He was certain Shruikan could divine what was happening and it chaffed Murtagh. It was like having Galbatorix standing over his shoulder, constantly casting his eye of disapproval.

"Thorn says he won't forgive me," Murtagh called to the shadowy depths. His voice reverberated in the cavernous space, indignant and proud. "Teach him some manners. Teach him that a dragon always respects his rider."

Murtagh knew it was a bitterly powerful insult. He felt giddy passing off the abuse to another, especially to one who had contributed to so much of his and Thorn's misery.

Shruikan snorted again. Thick smoke wafted from his nostrils and drifted towards Murtagh.

"Please," Murtagh added in a growl that wasn't all that different from Thorn's. "We have so much to accomplish on our King's behalf."

Shruikan's wicked eyes narrowed into thin slits upon Murtagh as he stretched his head into the expanse of the room. His head came within feet of Murtagh; he could feel the heat radiating off Shruikan.

Murtagh regretted that he forgot just how colossal Shruikan was.

A deafening rumble intruded on Murtagh's mind; Shruikan had barreled through his mental defenses as if they were a pile of dust. The sheer strength and power was overwhelming and nearly sent him tumbling to the floor.

_One man stands between you and my jaws, despicable coward. It's on your head that you have sabotaged your bond with Thorn, _Shruikan thundered. And as suddenly as he had come, he left Murtagh reeling in the wake of his might and acidic thoughts. Shruikan's head began retreating to its body.

Murtagh glanced swiftly at Thorn. The dragon had shifted his position so that where Murtagh now stood, the weak light revealed an atrocious sight. Thorn's back bore several series of enormous gouges. Each open wound oozed a bit of blood, dripping over several layers of dried blood. Thorn's scales possessed a dull sheen, coated with dirt and grimy gore. Galled, and roiling with guilt, Murtagh turned his attention back to Shruikan.

"Who's the real coward?" he demanded.

Shruikan's head stopped its retreat. Murtagh thought he saw sections of his scales ruffle upward. He huffed and a plume of smoke consumed half the room. He kept a frigid eye on Murtagh.

Thorn looked up from a wound he was licking on his foreleg, watching the confrontation with bated breath.

"You foul, heartless oversized lizard. At least I resist Galbatorix instead of supinely obeying orders and mauling my own kin!"

Shruikain shot to his feet faster than Murtagh would have thought possible for his girth. The entire floor shuddered as the black mountain stalked towards the insult-thrower, releasing a deafening roar.

Murtagh remained where he was, determined to prove he did not fear. His heart beat wildly within his chest and adrenaline flooded his veins as Shruikan's towering head lowered until it was level with Murtagh's. Shruikan pressed the tip of his smoldering snout, which was broader than several men standing shoulder to shoulder, against Murtagh's brow. The contact forced Murtagh to take several steps back to maintain his balance. A constant growl emanated from the pitch black dragon.

_One more word, filthy rodent, and I will tear you apart and deposit your shredded remains in the dung heap where they belong. I would rather suffer Galbatorix's rage than your cursed tongue, scale-less one._

The two stood motionless, neither willing to back down.

Shruikan raised his lips in a snarl, revealing massive pearlescent teeth twice the size of Murtragh.

Murtagh felt sweat trailing down his skin as if he had been caught in a rain shower. Shruikan's breath poured over him, engulfing him in a hot, moist cloud.

"You continue to confirm my suspicions that you are incapable of making responsible decisions."

Galbatorix's voice echoed throughout the cavern.

Shruikan pulled back from Murtagh and lowered his head to Galbatorix.

The King watched Murtagh with subtle incredulity. "Haven't you found enough trouble, Murtagh? Was my discipline not potent enough? Or do you seek Shruikan's discipline as well? He tells me nothing would give him greater pleasure."

Murtagh stared back at Galbatorix, his courage bolstered by his outrage. "You assume wrongly. We were having a nice little chat about cowards."

Galbatorix's visage went stony. "Do not test me again today, Murtagh," he said softly, but his voice was low and dangerous.

"Has Shruikan told you how much he wants to kill me?" Murtagh pressed, gesturing widely to Shruikan.

"Naturally," Galbatorix replied. "I share the same desire."

Murtagh, for the first time since he launched his offense against Shruikan, felt his confidence flag.

"Why do you think I waited to see you till today? I was making a _responsible_ decision." Seemingly satisfied, Galbatorix clapped Murtagh on the shoulder. "Here's to new beginnings. Show me you're not a complete failure."

For the duration of the afternoon, the two riders and their dragons worked on their aerial combat. It was a frustrating passage of time. Thorn and Murtagh constantly made mistakes. Galbatorix lost his temper accordingly.

To maximize the misery, the heat of the summer sun made the environment excruciatingly unbearable. Sweat poured off Murtagh as if he had become a fountain. Thorn became increasingly clumsy and disoriented. Thorn and Shruikan snipped at each other, intensifying Galbatorix's frustration. The apprentices were weary and struggled to ignore their pain, even as Galbatorix demanded they forget it entirely.

Patience was short in all four. Galbatorix demanded Murtagh and Thorn to repeat the same maneuvers repeatedly until he was satisfied they had it down solid.

When Thorn failed to perform a maneuver correctly for the twelfth time, Galbatorix cursed angrily and shouted, "You cannot rest till you correctly execute it three times! In succession! Saphira has more experience on you. We cannot allow that to be our weakness!"

At long last, when the sun was an hour or so from setting, the four returned to the roost. Thorn panted heavily, his head drooped, and a thin build up of foamy saliva outlined his maw. The afternoon's frustrations had not sped the process of reconciliation between Murtagh and Thorn. They parted without a word or even a glance.


	4. Dancing

Luana waited in Murtagh's sitting room, lounging in a claret red armchair. And though she appeared relaxed, every muscle was as tense as a cat poised to spring upon its prey.

She had arrived just moments ago upon seeing Galbatorix and Murtagh return to the palace from aerial acrobatics. Having witnessed Murtagh and Thorn get battered in their exercises, she would have to navigate negotiations with caution and great skill. She knew his moods, and while that offered some consolation, she felt that those moods were now darker and deeper and more treacherous. _Thank you, your highness, for making my job that much easier._

The door opened sharply and a sweaty, flushed Murtagh trudged in. He was shirtless, with every sweat-glazed grisly wound on display. He buried his face in the shirt he carried and grunted with pain when he wiped the back of his neck.

Luana froze and stared. His back was to her, giving her a full view of his discipline. Her eyes lingered on the raised scarlet line of feeble scabs angling across his back. Some of the scabs had broken when he had wiped his face and neck. Fresh blood beaded anew over the tender wound.

_Focus_, she reminded herself and quickly resumed her business as usual. She cast her gaze to the floor before her, but she could still discern his movements from the corner of her eye.

"I know you're here," he muttered.

Tossing his shirt upon the floor, he turned his attention on her. A deep scowl carved his face.

A capricious smile marked her own.

Murtagh reached for the dagger in his boot, with a slight grimace. He gripped the dagger's hilt in a trembling, white-knuckled fist.

"I warned you," he growled. His voice was deep and hoarse.

"And I'm warning you now. Galbatorix will carve you a new scar next to your father's when he learns you've killed me." She continued smirking, still quite at home in his chair, but kept a wary eye on the movements of her host. Though keenly aware that he was a formidable warrior, his marked exhaustion and lust for vengeance stacked the odds in her favor. She would get what she wanted, what she needed, by the end of what she hoped would be a civil, if not peaceful, visit.

"I'd be glad to bear it," he muttered darkly.

"Very well, love, but let's not be hasty. Please, save the shreds of your dignity and waste them not on me."

He glowered at her.

She smiled imperiously. She knew he hated that she knew that he knew that she was right.

"A bit of a coward to come crawling here when I'm…compromised."

"I wasn't aware this was the day you were being carved into submission."

"Weren't you? I'm sure you there."

"Oh, no. I never begin the day with torture."

"Don't you?' he muttered.

She glanced at his quivering dagger, still poised for action.

"Put that way, love, and we'll review your assassination plans for me over drinks. I'll share a few tricks of the trade."

Murtagh continued to glower at her, his dagger wavering slightly in his white-fisted grip. Trickles of sweat streaked his temples and neck.

"Please, don't make yourself look any more pathetic than you do now. Put it away."

"No."

She still sat in his chair, poised as though nothing threatened her. Her gaze bored into him, unwavering as a summer sun at noon in the desert.

Murtagh considered her a moment before sheathing the dagger. He gave her a hard, appraising stare as he found his way to a chair and slowly eased himself down between its open arms. He leaned forward slightly, leaving plenty of breathing room for his back.

"Doesn't the Black Hand give you enough play time?"

"I don't always like their games. Or their rules." She smiled fully at him. "But I'm not here to talk about me."

"Everything is a game to you," he grumbled. He wiped away the sweat on his brow with his hand and dried it on his leg.

"Because everything is a game." She spoke with authority; it was her motto. "So let's play one now. Have dinner and drinks with me tonight."

"No."

"Declining is not allowed."

"Not according to my rules."

He was irritated, but she sensed he was on the brink of agreeing to almost anything just to get away from her for a blessed moment of rest.

"Aren't you the tiniest bit curious what I'm up to?"

He stared at her, spending a long moment scrutinizing her motionless, expressionless physique.

And she stared back scrutinizing him.

"Killing me would kill you." He smirked at her. He was sure he knew her motive.

"Kill you? That would be a fatal play indeed! There would be nothing to gain but temporary peace of mind."

"I know you, Luana. You kill your enemies."

She smiled warmly at him. "True, but you're an exception. Remember?"

Murtagh stared at her, irritatingly baffled. He was too tired to keep up with her.

She did not conceal her pleasure at his weakness.

"Surely we can agree to a truce, love? At least for an evening."

"No," he growled. "Your word is meaningless."

"I know it is. And you can tell me more about all the ways you hate me over drinks. I have often wondered just what you would say if given the chance and I'm giving you the chance."

"No. You're up to something and I refuse to play."

She shook her head in disdain. "You may miss your chance to poison me. Or worse. Because I did only say a one night truce."

"But you just pointed out that I'm in no condition to even attempt-"

"One doesn't always need a great deal strength to kill."

He remained silent and immobile. She saw his mind working over her arguments in the pulsating vein along his neck and brow and in his eyes narrowed upon her. Satisfied with his thoughtfulness, she rose to her feet and slinked passed his chair.

"I promise I'll be worth your while," she said in a voice just above a whisper. She slid her hand gently over his shoulder as she passed. He seized her wrist and pulled her towards him, boring his burning brown eyes into hers.

"No. I promise."

She smirked, ignoring the surprise that shot through her at his touch. "Meet me at the main palace gates in an hour."

When she had left his rooms, she took a deep, refreshing breath. She was giddy; she had passed the first hurdle. Doubt at his coming soon plunged into her intoxicating joy, but she soon brushed it away. They had too much history; he had too much anger to not come.

The sun was just sinking below the horizon when Murtagh and Luana passed through the palace gates.

"You cleaned up better than I expected," Luana said as she passed her gaze over Murtagh's attire. She laid a hand upon his shoulder to touch the luxuriously soft linen of his tunic.

They passed though the outer alabaster archway, its towering arch looming over them with its inky shadows.

"Trying to blend in with the shadows?" she teased, remarking on the deep navy hue of his shirt.

Murtagh suddenly became self-conscious; his cheeks reddened much to his embarrassment. He was grateful that Luana could not see it. He passed a hand over the front of his shirt, smoothing away invisible wrinkles.

He stole a glance at her and for the hundredth time already that evening (they hadn't even entered the city yet) and scolded himself for agreeing to accompany her. He could still make a gracious exit….

"You look provocative, as always," he replied in kind. His bitter resolve against her was wavering. A crimson dress draped her comely shape. Thick, ropey straps of the red fabric hung on her sturdy but thin shoulders. The bodice hugged her back and chest to emphasize her alluring figure. The fabric relaxed at her hips where the skirt swished about her as she walked. Her hair was loosely held at bay in a leather tie. An ivory comb of a geometric shape adorned the place above the tie. An amber colored stone pendant the size and shape of an almond hung about her neck, crowning, to Murtagh's satisfaction, however reluctantly, her cleavage. It was just enough to make him want to see more. Noticing where his thoughts were headed, he abruptly turned his head to view the street before them. "Planning to bag a horny idiot?"

She laughed heartily at his retort. "Not an idiot, I hope. I don't consort with idiots; I tend to kill them."

"Where-" he beagn.

"I'm taking you to a great little place you've never seen or heard of." Taking his hand before he could react, she eagerly led him down the sloping palace road to a main thoroughfare. Murtagh noted the stoic guards. And though they stood motionless, he saw their eyes tracking Luana's every move.

"Great food," she continued, "great service, great atmosphere. It's in the eastern quarter. Not quite on par with the palace, setting wise, but a terrific place to, just, disappear." He marked how her eyes flashed with vitality at him; it was as if their past transgressions had never occurred. Aware of her charms, he kept a wary outlook. He forbade himself to so much as smile the entire evening.

After a lengthy walk, then a cart ride, and more walking, they were in the eastern quarter of the city. It was a part of the city that was not nearly as wealthy as its western counterpart, but it was a lively place. The pungent smells of spices and grilled meats filled their noses and made their stomachs rumble, reminding them both it had been hours upon hours since they had last eaten anything. The streets were chaotic with trade and night-life activities. They passed several street plays depicting familiar folklore stories. Small bands of musicians sang ballads telling of the romances and tragedies indigenous to both Uru'Baen of old and of lands beyond the control of the empire. With the sun setting, lamps of all sizes were lit. Some were covered by thin, colorful shades. The streets looked like a stained-glass window in motion.

Luana continued to lead Murtagh through the throngs of people. She frequently tossed him smiles or winks. And just when Murtagh thought he could take no more of this being led by a traitor to an obscure part of the city, she pulled him into a small stucco building with a tattered purple awning. Two large hanging lamps were on either side of the door. A purple curtain, the same shade as the awning, was pulled away from the doorway and held in place by thick strands of twine that were looped onto wood-hewn hooks.

Inside, the space was intimate and the lighting dim, the corners flirting with shadows. The aroma of roasted meats and exotic, pungent herbs hung heavy in the air. Guests already occupied eight of the ten available tables.

Even inside, Luana led the way, taking him to a table towards the front of the establishment but against a wall painted in a rusty orange with golden yellow patterns.

"Relax, Murtagh," she murmured. "No one knows who we are."

"But we know who we are," he said sternly.

"Oh, lighten up," she chided.

They seated themselves and a server appeared immediately to take their order. Once again, Luana took the lead, depriving him of the liberty of ordering for himself. They waited in silence until their drinks were served.

They each took a sip. She watched him over the rim of her earthen cup. In the dim light, her dark blue eyes appeared almost black.

He didn't know what he drank but it pleasantly surprised him. The spices were unfamiliar to his tongue and a pleasant burn warmed his throat. He inquired what it was.

"Basically, it's spiked tea." She beamed at him before savoring another long sip.

Murtagh struggled to remain indifferent. The enchanting atmosphere, the allure of her beauty, the potency of his drink, was having the most intoxicating affect on him. Music began to play out on the streets with instruments that were not traditional to Murtagh's upbringing. The notes seemed at first harsh, but as the song continued, he found it to be an enjoyable alternative to his accustomed tastes.

"Some call this, discreetly of course, the Surdan quarter," she told him.

"I know," he lied.

She laughed quietly. "No you didn't."

For some time, they said nothing. She watched him intently.

"You're staring," he said brusquely. "I don't like it."

"You don't? Any vainglorious man would delight in it, especially coming from me," she teased as she beamed her enchanting smile. Then the smile faded as she said, "Your look has changed much since we last met."

"People change." He hid behind a swallow of drink.

"True, except you're a different case. You're not _people_. You changed into a Dragon Rider. A Dragon Rider of King Galabatorix."

"It was bound to happen." He diverted his attention to the wall across the room. Their topic of conversation set him on edge.

"Indeed, it was." She traced the rim of her cup, her eyes still upon him. "He selected you out of sentimentality for your father."

"Don't flaunt your ignorance." His gaze returned to her.

Luana leaned back. "I can't afford to be ignorant; but I do make a profit on assumptions and implications."

"Ignorance, implication, call it what you want. You still can't claim to know much of anything about the Riders and why should you? You're a mere pawn of the king."

She laughed. "Indeed I am, but so are you. And it's a marvelous game he's playing with us, is it not?" And though she grinned, he saw an icy glimmer frost her gaze. Curious, he wondered whether to inquire her about her true sentiments. But he checked himself, believing his judgment was becoming impaired from the drink. It was certainly masking the constant stinging sensation all over his back.

Their food arrived and silence resumed its place between them. Murtagh avoided looking at her. In the absence of conversation, he turned his attention on the question of her reappearance in his life.

Half-way through their meal, Luana ended the silence.

"So, tell me of the adventures you had in Alagaesia, outside Galbatorix's meddling. I've heard many rumors, but I want to hear it in your own words."

Murtagh stared into his bowl of mangled wild rice, grilled vegetables and meats. He pushed the food around with a fork as he considered her invitation. _What does she want from me?_ At length he said, "It was difficult. Exhausting." Murtagh remembered how Eragon and he had fled like the wind from Gilead.

"I assumed as much. Please don't be shy. I haven't heard a good story for a long time." She leaned over the table slightly, resting her chin on the bridge of her hands.

He peered into her face. "You go first. You're a lady; it's polite. What stories have you to tell me since our regrettable departure?"

She reclined from the table, taking her drink and cradling it in her hands. "You would not listen." She sipped her drink.

"I insist," he pressed. "What merriment did Galbatorix put you up to during my leave of absence?"

She returned her cup to the table. "I must decline; it's confidential. But I suppose I dare to go so far as to say difficult and exhausting, riddled with failures and crowned with successes."

"Was that before you reached the king's bed or after?" He couldn't resist paying her an insult; although he was unsure whether he wanted it to harm her or amuse her.

She laughed.

"I have never personally met with his highness. My orders come to me through a middle man. I only saw King Galbatorix at the ceremony when I was sworn into service. Besides, have you ever seen a woman at his side?"

He ignored her remarks. "Am I one of your assignments?" He leaned back in his chair and angled a hand towards the dagger concealed in his boot.

"Keep your hands on the table," she commanded quickly before continuing as though nothing had happened. "I'm insulted. I do have a life outside my job."

"You didn't answer my question." He placed his hands on either side of his bowl and assumed a bored expression.

"You think I'm not seeing you of my own free will? Damn, you really are paranoid."

"Paranoid as opposed to cautious? Really, Lu." _Lu!?_ How could he have slipped and use the familiar form of her name?! He watched for her reaction. Her eyebrows raised ever so slightly in surprise, but that was all.

"You've wised up, then. You used to be so naive," she said bitterly.

"You've lost that advantage."

"Advantages come and go."

"What about the element of surprise? I could betray your identity right here to this crowd just as you betrayed me," he said smiling, savoring the seconds she sat in anxious suspense. "All I have to do is shout 'Black-"

"I love the way you make threats," she beamed. She rose suddenly. "Let's go out! We need a change of scene."

Before Murtagh could comprehend what was happening, she pulled money out from a secret pocket sewn into the folds of her dress and left it on the table. Murtagh gawked at the five gold pieces. It was more than enough.

"You just left five gold pieces."

"I'm feeling generous."

As Murtagh slowly rose to his feet, Luana again seized his hand and ferried him out the door.

The air was cooler on the streets than in the building and they both appreciated the relief it provided.

Music emanated from a nearby establishment. Raucous cheers echoed over whistling pipes and their staccato tempo.

"Let's go there!" Luana shouted over the din and yanked him behind her. Her grip was firm. Remembering old times, he casually, or so he hoped it seemed to her, let his thumb glide over the soft skin of her hand.

They both ducked into the open courtyard crowded with dancers. The music was loud, the rhythms fast, and the melody infectious. Luana made straight for the middle of the dancers. She raised her arms and swayed to the rhythms, stamping her feet with the beat. To Murtagh she was reverberating with life and energy. He wondered at her ability to ignore the past and live in the moment. As he dwelled on the thought, bitterness burned in his chest. It was an injustice.

When she noticed he remained sullen at the wall, watching her, completely devoid of life, she sidled up to him. Gripping his shoulder, she pressed into him and, pressing her cheek against his, she said into his ear so she could be heard, "Dance, you fool! You're embarrassing me!" She laughed as she pulled away from his face. In the back of his mind Murtagh wanted to resist, but the world around him was spinning in such a delightful way. And if she really put the past behind her, why couldn't he? Somewhere he felt this was poor reasoning on his part, but his desire for letting things go, to enjoy himself for once, and forget the agonies of the past overcame his rigid self-control. _Why am I trusting her?_ his thoughts whispered to him as he followed her to the center of the dancing his analyzing came to an end when she took each of his hands, pulling him into herself and before he realized what was happening, he was dancing with her.

Faces flashed in a blur around him, but hers was always in focus. And though she wasn't always focused on him, he felt she was always watching him on her periphery. After the flurry of the current song ended, the musicians selected a tune where the tempo started slow, progressively growing faster, then slowing again. The instruments each took turns with the melody. The drums and claps of the others dictated their complicated dance steps.

During a vocal solo in the song, Luana broke out into a mesmerizing sequence of steps and movements. She was so fluid, and her talent so apparent, that she had transfixed the attention of other dancers and onlookers. The musicians exchanged looks with each other, merriment in their expressions. In a matter of seconds, she was the only one moving on the floor. She had them spellbound. The song ended and applause erupted from the crowd and a couple of the musicians. She curtsied, beaming, her face flushed and shimmering with a film of sweat.

She went to Murtagh. "Let's get a drink." They made their way over to a bar set up on the far side of the courtyard as the music started up again.

A man pushed his way towards her and begged her to dance again, but with him this time. Luana's gaze shifted to Murtagh and she gracefully apologized that she could not. She pulled Murtagh beside her and wove her fingers between his. "He would not approve," she said, smiling and giving Murtagh a wink. The man bowed, looking embarrassed, and quickly retreated away from them. They ordered their drinks and when they arrived, drank them quickly as if their thirst could not be quenched.

"And was that the result of training in the academy?"

"What? That? Oh, no. That was all me." She turned her attention to the dancers on the floor. Her foot tapped in beat with the music.

"You've been leading all evening," said Murtagh over his drink as he bowed his head close to her face. "It's my turn."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

Murtagh fixed his eyes on her lips, before he brought them her eyes. "I say we settle this."

Luana laughed. "You don't hold your drink as well as you used to."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, concentrating on not slurring his words.

"What does Master Murtagh believe needs settling?"

To this he made no verbal reply. He laid a hand on the small of her back and let it fall along the curve of her hip and thigh. In his blurred mind, he saw something in the way she smiled. In the way her eyes flashed as though with greed. But he would decipher it later, he told himself. He gripped her hand and pulled it down so she fell against him. "Follow my lead."

He jerked her after him and they scurried out of the courtyard of dancers. The music pounded merrily in his head, the colors of the streets and the crowd filled his vision with swirls, and the scent of perfumes and spices intoxicated his already compromised senses.

Gripping her hand, he realized how much he missed holding it. He yanked her hand, pulling her up beside him from where she was close behind him. Her arm pressed against his. She matched his pace and they flew down the streets until they were breathless. They hailed a carriage that carried them back to the palace gates.

When they got out, her hands gripped his forearms. Peering into his face she asked, "Mine or yours?"

"Whichever is closer." His hand gripped the back of her neck and let his fingers trail down her

back.

"That would be mine then," she murmured.

In the dark and quiet of her chambers, they revisited old pleasures, releasing their frustrations and concerns into their loving. Worries and cares melted away. Their only thought was to savor one another. The past was forgotten. The future ignored. The present embraced.

Murtagh marveled at the ease with which they reconnected. How much he had forgotten and how much he remembered of their time together. At long last here was something familiar, something….He was puzzled as to why they had ever parted ways.

Their flurry subsiding, they rested beside one another. She was cradled in the crook of his arm, laying on her side with a hand upon his chest, a finger tracing invisible lines over his bare skin.

He was dozing off when she propped herself upon her elbow to look at him. "I suppose this doesn't change anything."

Without really knowing why, he found himself chuckling. Somewhere deep within he felt the flame of hatred flare then subside. He looked into her face; he didn't know what he saw: a traitor or a lover. "Can't you leave it be? Can't we just…savor this night? Without discussion?"

Her free hand cupped his cheek. "You cannot afford not to, love. Neither can I."

He shook his head in confusion, reluctant to ascertain her real motives. "What do you want Luana? You swore you never went back."

"You're not satisfied being the exception?"

"No," he said sharply. "It's never that simple with you."

"Alright. It's because every man since you has failed to impress."

He chuckled. "I'm not sure I believe that." He raised the arm he kept about her waist and caressed her back. "You monster," he murmured. "I've spent sleepless nights designing new ways of avenging myself for your treachery. And now you've set me against myself."

"That's to your benefit. I'd be a thorn in your side, even in death. King Galbatorix would not appreciate the murder of one of his elite. You would pay a steep price."

"If he doesn't find it entertaining first. He found such squabbles within the Forsworn amusing."

"I am of as much value to him as you are."

He laughed. "Not so. You don't have a dragon."

"A dragon I have not, but I know how to follow orders."

He stared at her, deeply stung. "You're fortunate I'm too tired to take a swing at you."

She laughed. "Empty threats." She bowed her face over his and softly brushed her lips over his chin and lips. When he did not react, she withdrew and laid her head upon his shoulder with a sigh. "I wish times were different." Her puff of warm breath sent goose bumps over his skin.

"Agreed," he sighed.

[After a lengthy pause, she said, "You know you can't sit on the fence for much longer. You have to decide before it's decided for you."

Murtagh squeezed his eyes shut. "Luana, I don't want to talk about it."

"But you do. There's a war raging in your head. Here you are, outfitted as the king's right hand man, you kill the king of the dwarves and yet you fail, or rather refuse, to bring back this Eragon and his piddly dragon."

"Why should that concern you? What do you care if I'm conflicted?"

"I guess that depends on whether you view me as a stranger or friend."

"I never could get a straight answer from you. You're not worthy of my confidence." He turned his head from her.

She let the insult pass. "Then Thorn is your only confidant?"

Murtagh declined to reply.

She half smiled. "How wretched. What could he possibly know of the intricacies of a man?"

"Thorn is wise. He's perceptive. He understands more than you think." Talk of Thorn poisoned his good mood. He should have known better that his happy reprieve would have a short life.

"Then he must be the one that keeps you on the fence. Or is he counseling you in one direction?"

Murtagh returned his gaze to her. Her head was perched there upon his chest, her eyes watching him with such intensity, like an owl surveying the night and perceiving everything. Suspicion enacted his defenses.

"The _right_ direction?" she persisted. She had no trouble holding his gaze.

Determining it was better to say nothing, he broke eye contact with her and turned over.

"The right side, Murtagh, is the winning side."

Murtagh staggered through his thoughts to make sense of what was happening; and for a way he could reign her in and utilize her for his own purposes because he suspected that Galbatorix had indeed deployed her to him.


	5. Apparition of the Past

It was long after midnight, but hours till dawn would paint the sky. It was in this in-between time, known as the dead of night, when Murtagh woke.

The haze of alcohol and exhaustion had vanished. With renewed eyes he watched Luana's peaceful slumber. She was lying on her side and her arms loosely embraced a large pillow. Watching her, he was startled to discover that the intensity of his hatred for her had somewhat diminished.

Fearful he was in danger of retracting his personal vow for vengeance, he recalled his memories of Tornac to stoke his hatred of her. He carefully withdrew from her and dressed.

As he pulled on his shirt, the last article of clothing he donned, he wondered whether Luana was aware of him, if she was watching him through slits in her eyes. He glanced at her to be sure; she hadn't moved at all. She was undoubtedly down for the count; it had been an eventful night and she had consumed more inebriating beverages that he. He found himself smiling.

He was reluctant to admit that she had indeed done him a favor. Luana had, however temporary it was, removed the angst that had been plaguing him since the Twins ferried him back to Uru'baen. Still, it was no compensation for Tornac's fate. Murtagh had vowed he would avenge his friend's death; he intended to honor that vow.

Without another look at Luana, he crept out the door to her rooms.

The corridor was dusky in the sputtering light of dying flames in the sconces that lined either side of the hall. Next to the almost darkness was the heat. The heat from the previous day seemed to have retreated indoors. The open windows could not lessen the heat; not even the lightest of breezes could sweep it away.

Letting his mental guard down, Murtagh sought for any being awake. He found none.

He straggled down the hall, savoring the quiet but grumbling against the oppressive air. The palace seemed eerily desolate without servants or courtiers bustling about and the hum and drone of conversations and housework. As he ambled along, it dawned on him that Luana was residing in the palace. Murtagh's skin began to crawl; he sensed the entire evening had been a set-up and he had walked right into it. _Curses!_

Murtagh was approaching the grand hallway of the palace, where guests were received before being escorted to their appropriate places of business, when he sensed a presence nearby. Instinctually, he retreated back into his mind and reinforced his barriers. With a wary eye, he scanned the dim thoroughfare and saw nothing. And then realized he was being followed.

_I'm never drinking again._

A phantom lady, draped in a loose gown the color of the King's finest wine, slinked along a small passageway that spilled her out onto one of the main hallways leading to the palace's grand hall. A black cloak, light and sheer as a cobweb, billowed behind her in the stuffy air. It was a thick summer evening and the day's heat seemed to congregate in these poorly ventilated recesses of the palace. A thick plait of wavy hair the color of fertile soil after a nourishing rain hung heavily upon her neck. Her skin was dewy with perspiration; not from the heat but from anxiety. She was roaming the palace of Uru'Baen, a forbidden venture.

A venture that came to a jarring halt.

Ahead of her, just yards away, was the dark silhouette of a man. Her heart fluttered anxiously. She pondered his presence for he was not dressed as a guard or a servant. Her previous escapades at this hour of night had never presented anyone else. Panic began to course through her. She carefully backed herself against the wall; there was nowhere to hide. Her breaths came shallow and shaky. She shut her eyes madly hoping the man would continue on his way and out of sight.

He did not.

He turned suddenly and dashed after her.

Unwilling to surrender now, she fled.

The pursuit did not even exceed the span of a minute.

Swift as a falcon, he caught her by the wrist, twisting it sharply to submit her will to his. She was too stunned to scream. Yanking her aside, he shoved his hostage up against the unforgiving wall while withdrawing a hidden dagger. The naked edge of the blade threatened entrance just under her chin. The eyes that glowered at her, dark and fierce, were more startling than the blade that threatened her life.

They remained motionless for a time observing one another, hoping to ascertain the other's intentions.

Struggling to recover from the shock of finding herself in this thorny situation, she smiled weakly, desperately hoping to pass off the whole thing as a misunderstanding. "I-I'm sorry I st-startled you." She swallowed and it hurt; the blade had not retreated by the slightest fraction. It was frightfully keen upon her ivory skin.

His eyes were as cold and sharp as the blade; she wasn't sure which pained her most.

"To kill me would only trouble you," she stammered, pleading with him, when he remained silent and motionless.

"Who are you? What are you doing?" His voice was just above a malicious whisper.

She pondered his inquiry before replying evasively, "Who I am does not matter."

His eyes narrowed in scrutiny and mistrust. He kept his gaze locked on her eyes, allowing him to focus on the situation and not on her astonishing beauty.

His glare persisted. "You must matter, and quite significantly at that, to live in the palace." He glanced down at her dress and was momentarily distracted by the low neckline and the beautiful portion of flesh it framed before returning a wary eye upon her face. "I'll ask again: _who_ are you and _what_ errand brings you here?"

"Whatever I say, you will doubt," she breathed.

Slowly, he removed the dagger from her throat, pondering what to do with her. At length, Murtagh stood aside, but she remained frozen against the wall, unable to take her fearful eyes off her inquisitor.

He reached towards her with a hand and pulled away the front of her cloak to reveal a satchel.

"A thief, eh?"

"N-no."

He took hold of the bag and opened the flap. To do so, he had stand close to her.

She tried to slow her racing breath, but found that it was beyond her control.

He poked around her bag. "Not much value in your goods there," he remarked coldly.

"I-I'm not a thief, sir," she said.

He smirked at her. "No? Then why the secrecy?"

Her courage failed and the tension that held her pressed to the wall dissipated. She bowed her head in despair and her shoulders slackened. She was on the verge of crumpling to the floor.

"You are…running away," he whispered.

His sudden change in tone and demeanor surprised her. She lifted her eyes to his face. The fierce look had disappeared and a haunted look resided on his face. She was unable to respond.

"I know a better route," he said slowly, looking at her bag. "Come, I'll show you." He hesitated a moment before turning away from her.

Stunned, she remained where she was, staring after him.

He was a few paces away when he stopped to look at her. "We don't have much time." And though there was urgency in his voice, she detected a sadness beneath it.

Silently, but swiftly, he navigated the palace, taking the most obscure route he knew. Indeed, these halls were new to her; she had never found them on her own prowling ventures. She followed him, her heart racing all the time. She continually questioned herself whether to trust him.

After what seemed an hour to her, they came to a wall. It was on one of the bottommost floors of the palace. The wall was dark and clammy to the touch.

She watched as his hands trace along the wall, seeming to search for some hidden rift. After a moment, she heard the sound of grinding, shifting stone. As a part of the wall shifted, a dark so dark and complete that she thought she was on the verge of the void, appeared before her.

"It's steep. And most of the steps have worn away, so watch yourself that you don't slip. It goes on for what seems like a lifetime, but it will take you outside the city walls by one of the city's garbage heaps. From there, you will have to find your own way."

He reached into a pocket withdrawing several coins and held them out to her. She stared in awe at the large gold and silver discs.

"You'll need it," he said.

Marveling at him, she accepted the coins and tucked them into her satchel. Her curiosity begged her to ask him who he was, but her reason checked her. When she had finished, she peered into the black nothing. Trembling seized her, but she said nothing. She recalled her purpose and it assuaged the worst of her terror. She was fleeing a terror more real and potent than a dark, grimy passage.

"I'm sorry, I don't have a light. There's no time now. You understand?"

Tears suddenly sprang to her eyes as she nodded in agreement. And without thinking, she threw her arms around him. "Thank you." A sob escaped her and she quickly withdrew from him, suddenly embarrassed. "I wish I could express my thanks in more than just words, but…." Her voice trailed off as she looked once again at the darkest of nights before her. She took a step forward, on the threshold of the dark passageway, and then stopped.

She turned to look at Murtagh, wiping away her tears with her fingers, and then standing straight and with her composure intact, said, "You are a good man." She paused. "I know the look in your eyes. I hope what you want is as clear to you as it is for me."

Without further ado, she strode into the dark gloom.

Murtagh watched her disappear into the inky blackness of the tunnel. He waited, listening to her slow and careful footfalls. When he could no longer hear her shuffling and stumbling against the darkness, he shut the passage's entrance.

An immense sadness overtook him. Agony gripped him by the throat and without his consent a sob erupted from him.

His face scrunched tight, trying to hold back the tide of emotion. He felt his pulse pounding in his neck and face, as he struggled to hold his breath.

A second sob escaped him.

He rushed a hand to his face, covering his nose and mouth, in a desperate attempt to control himself.

But when the tears leaked from his eyes, the battle was lost.

He slumped against the passage's hidden door and slid to the floor.

He and Tornac had traversed the same passage he had sent the woman down. He hoped, wildly hoped, that her journey would not end in tragedy like his own.


	6. Expectations, Decisions, Consequences

Luana slowly turned over onto her back, tightening the sheet that was wound about her waist and legs. With loosely balled fists, she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and stretched. Then grinned.

"I win."

Indeed, she believed she had won round one of her loathed assignment. Murtagh had responded just as she had hoped. Sure he had been stubborn, but so was she.

And his disappearance during the night did not trouble her; she knew he was wrestling with a troubled conscience.

She pulled free of her bedding and sauntered over to the washstand where she poured water from a heavy travertine pitcher into a matching large basin. Reaching into a crystalline vase, she procured a white thumbnail-size tablet of soap and plopped it into the basin. She muttered a few words of the Ancient Language. The tablet instantly disintegrated as an aromatic fragrance wafted from the water's surface. Scooping the liquid into her hands, she gently splashed her face and neck. It refreshed her; and her mind.

While she did view the previous night as a victory, she, too, experienced a troubled conscience; but unlike Murtagh, who was undoubtedly troubled by his sense of integrity, she was troubled by something more primal: self-preservation. Murtagh, like herself, could potentially be playing along, biding his time as he waited for an opportunity to deliver her a fatal blow.

She reached for the towelette that hung on a bar attached to the washstand and dried her face and neck.

And yet…she could not disregard that they had reconnected on a level that surprised her; their night was truly reminiscent of what they had shared before he escaped from Uru'baen. Such a connection surely boded well for her success; yet it also had the potential to further complicate matters. Their reignited passion would plague Murtagh; he would either succumb to it, thus playing into her hands, or pursue his vengeance with greater ardency. She would have to coax him out of his lust for revenge before attempting the purpose of her mission. What that would look like, she didn't know, but she would be prepared either way.

These thoughts accompanied her in the five minutes it took her to dress. She wore a white cotton tunic and tan linen leggings and sturdy leather shoes. She was wrestling with her hair as she strode out of her chambers, on her way to the training facility for athletes and soldiers. She sensed it would be a good day…even if the weather was sweltering hot.

* * *

><p>Murtagh stood at the line of windows in his bedchamber, staring into the bleak gray light of dawn. A faint breeze caressed his dewy brow.<p>

His mind, his conscience rather, had forbidden him to sleep.

_You are a good man.__I hope what you want is as clear to you as it is for me._

Was he a good man?

He had helped the woman flee, but he had also nearly killed her without hesitation. If she hadn't been so beautiful he was sure he would have killed her.

No, that wasn't the reason. He spared her because he had feared retribution from above; a risk he wasn't willing to take. But then, wasn't it also a risk to help her?

His brow crinkled in frustration; his thoughts only seemed to take him in well-worn circles. He had been in confusion ever since returning to Uru'Baen after the battle at the Burning Plains. It was all because of Eragon….

His hands slowly clenched into fists.

Had he been a good man to give them back their freedom?

He had known he would suffer for it and willingly; it was a rare opportunity to openly defy Galbatorix. But Thorn had disagreed with him, urging him to fulfill their orders. Murtagh had reassured Thorn he had nothing to fear; that he alone would take Galbatorix's wrath since it was his decision alone. But Murtagh had foolishly assumed Galbatorix would be so just. Now mistrust was, well, a thorn, wedged deeply into their relationship….He should have placed his allegiance to Thorn above Eragon and Saphira.

"_If you do this, Murtagh, you'll be lost forever,"_ Eragon's voice echoed.

"Bah," he grumbled, bowing his head. His eyes slowly traced the white veins in the black marble sill.

_I hope what you want is as clear to you as it is for me._

"What do I want?" he whispered. He wanted to be a righteous man…didn't he? But at what cost?

He wanted to live. That much he knew beyond a doubt. And peacefully if possible. So, if he knew what he wanted, then he could not see the path that would lead him there, obscured by the tangle of lives that crossed his.

One of those tangles was Luana.

His jaw tightened.

Now there was a conflict warring within him if he ever felt one.

Her death was obviously necessary for avenging Tornac's death. He wanted that. But-

A tight, burning ache in his neck and back interrupted his thoughts.

Tension. He was so tired of being in a state of constant tension. He took in a deep breath and slowly released it.

Looking up, the gray dawn was slowly taking on a warm glow.

He recalled the previous night. Luana had seemingly eliminated all his tension single-handedly in the span of only a few hours. How blissful it had been to forget all the guilt, the sorrow, the anger!

It was only temporary, but it was so sweet. He wanted more.

He frowned.

How could it be that Luana was both a source of tension and of relief?

Luana's reappearance in his life was strangely perfect. He couldn't shake the suspicion that the entire evening had been contrived. And he fell for it.

He pounded the window sill with his fist. A scowl sharpened his already brooding countenance.

_How am I a good man?_

He needed Thorn; there was no one else who could truthfully answer his questions. No one else to guide him.

And honestly… he owed Thorn a quality apology.

Turning from the window, he was proud to know, to feel, that he was making the right decision and that he alone was the one deciding it.

He reached for Zar'roc (he never went anywhere without it as long as he could help it), which was lying on the upholstered bench at the foot of his bed, quickly belted it on and made haste for the dragon roost.

The morning sun had just breached the expansive archway and windows of the roost when Murtagh arrived, filling the cavern with golden beams as they penetrated the ever-present cloud of fine dust.

Warm and earthy smells of leather and exotic incense scented the air.

Members of the roost crew busied themselves with their duties of sweeping, mopping, polishing, etc.; but once they saw Murtagh, they halted their work and looked expectantly at him, awaiting orders.

It was still a strange power to Murtagh, to command a room of people just by entering it. He was getting used to it, but every now and then, like this morning, he was a little abashed.

He raised his hands slightly and gestured that they return to their business. With a bow of their heads, they obeyed.

Thorn lifted his head and lazily slipped out his tongue in the direction of his rider.

_Still in bed? _Murtagh asked as he strode over to the gleaming mass of purest red scales and membrane.

_Might as well. I avoid trouble if I can._ Thorn nodded his head in the direction of Shruikan's dwelling place.

Murtagh followed his gaze to Shruikan's hollow tucked away in the dark recesses of the cavernous room. Shruikan was gone.

_Where did he go?_

_**They**__ didn't say. They left nearly an hour ago, and in a huff, too. Galbatorix was rather agitated. _Thorn yawned, revealing the many razors within. _ I thought it wise not to ask._

A small, icy tingle rippled through Murtagh's stomach. Their absence troubled him; he recalled the woman he had assisted.

_And what brings you here at this early hour? I sensed you had a rather eventful night. _Thorn flicked out his tongue. _I detect a hint of alcohol about you. And…_

Thorn flicked out his tongue again, this time grazing Murtagh's cheek. _A woman's scent._

Murtagh felt his ears grow hot with embarrassment. He shifted his weight and was unable to bring his gaze to Thorn.

Thorn spared him from having to answer. _Not to worry. I ignored you most of the time._

Murtagh grimaced. _Most of the time?! _

_I was trying to sleep, but I couldn't help sensing your spikes of ecstasy-_

_ALRIGHT! I never thought we would have to have that conversation. _Murtagh stared at the floor, too embarrassed to do anything else.

Thorn stepped off his mountain range of pillows and stretched. _We don't have to. It's not why you're here this morning, is it?_

Thorn looked about the roost, trying to make eye contact with a roost crew member. He issued a deep, ominous growl when they failed to notice his beseeching eyes. The crew didn't have to stop and look to see what was the matter. They doubled their pace and one by one, disappeared behind a door; Thorn wanted breakfast.

_No. I thought we should get out of the city and—_

_Who was she? I mean, did you know her before? _

Murtagh blinked, caught completely off guard. For a fraction of a second, he didn't know to which woman Thorn was referring.

_I mean, you look peaked. Are you sure you're able to fly? _Thorn gave Murtagh a gentle nudge with his warm, moist snout. It left a wet nose print on his shirt.

Murtagh furrowed his brow. _Sometimes I think I don't know you at all._

Thorn parted his lips in a toothy dragon smile. _We can get out of the city, as you say, once I've eaten._ He looked longingly at the door as the end of his tail flicked. _I hope they bring enough. I can't seem to eat enough lately._

* * *

><p>The air was still and frightfully quiet except for the occasional cadence of locusts and the cry of a circling hawk.<p>

Nefalia crouched among green shoulder-high stalks of corn. Her hair felt like a hot, damp towel draped across her back. The sun had barely crested the horizon and the day was already sweltering.

She had wanted to be farther along on her journey, but her escape through the lightless tunnel had been painstakingly slow. When she had reached the tunnel's end, she knew time was against her. Wanting to get as far away from Uru'Baen as possible, she had chosen not to change into her disguise, hoping the darkness would be enough to cover her from the view of unfriendly eyes.

With dawn fast approaching, she needed to don her disguise. From her satchel she removed a kerchief the color of parched dirt and tied it about her head, capturing and concealing her hair.

Her gaze darted between the stalks and the clear open sky overhead, already more blue than gray. There wasn't a single cloud in sight.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that long hours had passed since it was satisfied. She could ignore her stomach; her parched throat was another matter. Her waterskin had to last her until she could find another secure water source.

Her hand plunged into the satchel again, quickly bypassing her food and water provisions, and removed the dirty gray tunic dress she had stolen from the palace's laundry quarters.

She scrambled out of her palace finery and into the unflattering garment, doing her best not to disturb the rigid stalks around her.

Withdrawing a bit of rope, she cinched it about her narrow waist. Reaching into the bag again, she pulled out a small money sack and the coins the man gave her back in the palace. She dropped the coins inside the sack and attached it to her beggar's belt. Her last article of clothing was a grimy, faded blue apron with a tear near a corner at the bottom. She tied it on hastily and made sure it covered her money bag.

She stuffed the blood-red dress and black cob-webby cloak into her bag; she would leave as few clues as possible behind.

Her bracelet glinted back at her as it caught a sunbeam.

She slid it down her wrist and that was as far as it would go. She formed her hand into the narrowest shape possible, but it was futile. Puzzled, she stared at it a moment, trying to remember how it even got on.

Unwilling to waste any more time, she gave up on the bracelet.

Digging her hands into the dirt, she grabbed a small dusty handful and rubbed her hands together. She wiped the rest about her face, neck, and arms.

Satisfied with her appearance, she slowly rose in height till her head was level with the heads of corn. In the not too far distance was the city of Uru'baen. She watched it intently for several moments. Waiting. From where she stood, it looked peaceful and deserted save for the swirls of smoke chimneys.

Assured by the serene view, she bent down to hoist up her satchel when she noticed her feet. She muttered a curse; her shoes. However dusty they were, the red satin and black beading still boasted of their royal origin. It would take mud to hide such finery. Her heart sank. Was she willing to use her precious water to complete her disguise?

Moments later, her shoes looked as if they were made of nothing but mud.

She crept through the cornfield until she neared its edge and sighted a forlorn one-story house and a low, stone barn. The farmer, she assumed, walked into her field of vision and passed into the house through a rickety door.

Something darted over head. She stumbled and fell with a rustling thud. Looking up, she caught sight of a swallow. She remained on the ground a moment, waiting for her heart to calm itself.

She took a deep breath and sighed. She wished she wasn't shaking quite so much.

A dog yipped and barked. She heard the farm door open and close again, followed by the voices of two men. Possibly a father and his oldest son? She couldn't discern what the conversation was about because of the incessant barking.

Time to move. Slowly, on her hands and knees, she crawled back into the thicket of corn, following the furrows.

The dog kept barking. Sweat trickled down the side of her face. She feared the dog would discover her.

She halted when she realized that a large sandy stone in front of her was actually the toe of a worn deer-hide boot.

"Just what are you about?"

She didn't dare look up. "M-my brother, he threw something of mine in here for sport."

The man laughed. "Your brothers been tryin' to find a way to get us alone. Them devils," he guffawed as he reached a dirty hand out to her.

Her mouth felt drier than the earth beneath her hands. She couldn't move.

"Don't' worry now. I'll help ya find it," he said as he bent down. "You don't need to hide that pretty face of yours. My face is 'bout as red as yours now."

He reached out a hand and touched her cheek.

She didn't know why but she panicked. Bolting to her feet, she took several desperate strides when she was caught about the arm and whirled around.

The strangers stared at one another in confusion.

The young man blinked several times as he struggled to make sense of the situation. His lashes pulled at the tangle of blonde bangs that fell beneath his brow.

He hadn't caught his sweetheart.

"I—I—I'm sorry," he stammered. "I thought you were…" He shook his head. "Who? What are you doing in my Pa's field?"

A massive shadow soared over them, followed by a powerful rustling wind.

Nefalia felt sick._ No. No, no, no!_

The young man sighed out several curses as he watched a black behemoth soar just feet over him.

Nefalia ran, tearing through the corn. She kept hoping that the earth would open up and swallow her.

_Running is futile,_ Galbatorix whispered in her head.

She screamed. It was a primal scream. A hopeless scream. A desperate scream. She clamped her hands to her head in an attempt to stamp out his presence.

Like running, it was also futile.

All at once she came to an abrupt halt, as though reaching the end of a tether and could go no further.

He had caught her.

A moment later, the farmer boy appeared. His face was as white as a sheet. "H-he sent me to get you," he said, his voice straining to get above a whisper.

She nodded, not knowing what else to say or do. There was nothing to say or do.

He lifted her up awkwardly, obviously self-conscious that he was handling a woman because he had no experience with them apart from mother and sisters. He carried her so that her legs draped over his left arm and her shoulder blades rested on his right arm. He was trembling.

The trek to the edge of the field seemed like seconds and hours.

King Galbatorix stood with his hands clasped in front of him, an amused smile upon his face. Shruikan stood stoically behind him, tendrils of smoke wafting from his snout.

Nefalia shut her eyes; she had nothing but unpleasant memories of Shruikan.

"Thank you," Galbatorix smiled. His teeth gleamed a pearly white, a stark contrast against his dark beard and complexion. "I'll take her now."

For a brief moment Nefalia felt weightless as she was lifted into the air by magic. She heard the young man gasp, astonished.

Galbatorix directed her to Shruikan and gently set her upon his saddle. Shruikan watched her like a snake eyeing his prey.

Nefalia anxiously watched from her perch. For a moment, the King and his subject just looked at one another. The farmer and his wife stood huddled together outside their open front door. The door's hinges groaned as a weak breeze rolled into it.

"My deepest apologies for this interruption."

The woman felt sick. She knew that look on Galbatorix's face and that tone of voice. Something unpleasant was about to happen.

"Don't!" Nefalia shouted with everything in her. Again, futile.

The man crumpled to the ground. Dead.

The farmer's wife shrieked and collapsed to her knees.

The farmer stood his ground, blinking, much like his son had, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Galbatorix turned and climbed onto Shuikan. As he neared the saddle, he paused and his cold eyes rested on Nefalia. "Your courage is admirable, but worse than foolish. Note what you have done."

She felt cold and breathless, even though the mid-morning sun was shining relentlessly upon her.

Galbatorix arranged himself on the saddle with Nefalia tucked between himself and Shruikan's neck.

"Burn it all, Shruikan."


End file.
